


Sherlock Holmes and the Baffling Lady

by Guylene



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: American History, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Banter, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, France (Country), Historical References, Musical References, POV John Watson, POV Original Character, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Romance, United States, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guylene/pseuds/Guylene
Summary: In 1885 Sherlock Holmes meets a peculiar young lady but to him she is just a client. After all, London's best known bachelor cannot fall in love! Or can he?





	1. Chapter 1

**Eastbourne, December 31st, 1940**

During the last fifty years I have never really planned to write about my acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Watson wrote much better than I could ever do and besides it was a very personal matter and Mr. Holmes wouldn't have wanted to reveal it to the public.

Dr. Watson recorded almost any case he and Sherlock Holmes solved together and only a very small part was published. As he died, Watson left the whole records to his best friend, not wanting it to be destroyed or to end in someone else's hands. While examining this records, I came across the one that mentioned my first meeting with them. It was funny to read that story after so many years and then I decided to write how I first met Sherlock Holmes and what happened next.

There is a reason why I feel the need to write about this story: I must get my mind off the war.

Two days ago the Luftwaffe made another raid on London. There was a devastating fire, many people have died, I don't even know if my old house still exists. This is not the first raid and it won't be the last one for sure.

Eastbourne has been spared until now but the truth is, they could bomb us and kill us anytime.

I'm not that afraid of dying - I am eighty years old, surprisingly healthy for my age and I've had a wonderful life. No, the idea that the Nazis could win the war tortures me and the idea that I could die without seeing the end of this war kills me. My beloved Paris occupied, my dearest London bombed, the world I have known threatened and possibly destroyed, this is just unbearable.

Given my age, my health and the fact that I am in Eastbourne, I can't do anything, I can't help in any way. I can do nothing but dwelling about the war and about my loved ones who are involved all the time.

Telling the story of how I met Sherlock Holmes and what happened next will be a distraction.


	2. A curious meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meeting between Sherlock Holmes and my female OC

**Records of Dr. John Watson - 1886**

It was a sunny Spring morning in 1885 and Sherlock Holmes and I were finishing our breakfast in our Baker Street's flat. Holmes had solved a complicated case of murder about a week before and hadn't had another case since then.

Our breakfast was interrupted by Mrs Hudson telling us that a young lady wished to consult Holmes about a delicate matter. A moment later, Mrs Hudson opened the door to an elegant, good-looking young woman she introduced as Miss Le Goff. The surname, the dress and the way she wore her hair told me immediately that she wasn't English.

Holmes stood and I went to greet her: "Good morning, Miss Le Goff. I am Doctor Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. Please take a seat."

"Good morning to you, gentlemen" she answered with a very peculiar accent "My name is Gwenn Le Goff".

She had a slender figure, bright light blue eyes and wavy brown hair tied up in a simple bun. The elegant but plain light blue dress matched her eyes' colour almost perfectly and she looked confident and intelligent. I had the impression that I had already met her but I couldn't tell where.

"Ah, you come from Brittany, Miss Le Goff, even if -of course- you clearly spent years in the northern part of the United States. Pray tell us what event worried you so much that you could neither sleep nor play your violin."

I was used to Holmes' deductions and I wasn't surprised although I didn't know how he had figured it all out. But Miss Le Goff, although she wasn't used to Holmes' methods, wasn't surprised as well and smiled wickedly.

"Ah, then you have noticed that I live at the other side of Baker Street!"

Of course! Now I remembered that I had indeed seen her walking down Baker Street sometimes - with a violin case.

"Indeed, Miss Le Goff. You usually turn off your lights very early but yesterday you stayed up late into the night and I could see your shadow moving behind the curtains. And I didn't hear your violin yesterday, even if our windows and your ones were open. Then, of course, you speak with an American accent, even if with a strong French influence. And I don't think that there are any Le Goffs outside Brittany".

Miss Le Goff smiled again: "It is true, Mr Holmes. I have received some news and I believe, for reasons that you will soon see, that this news is not for the police"

"Please tell us what happened," prompted Holmes, leaning on the armchair and closing his eyes in his typical listening position.

"I have a young maid called Lucy who keeps my house. Before becoming a maid," she hesitated for a long moment, "she was a prostitute". I turned to her, slightly bewildered, but 

Holmes didn't react and moved his hand to prompt her.

"There is a little... organisation in London that tries to place these unfortunate young women in a decent house where they can learn a honest job. The goal is that they earn a little money and a reference and then leave London and possibly the country. They could be recognized if they stayed here. I've already employed three of these girls as housemaids and Lucy is the newest one. She arrived a week ago."

She waited for a moment but Holmes didn't ask any questions and kept his eyes shut. Then she continued.

"Lucy informed me about a particularly disgusting trafficker. She knows a protector who... buys young girls from poor families". She took a deep breath while I shivered in utter disgust.

"When I say young girls, Mr. Holmes, I mean that they are fourteen, fifteen... almost children. Their families have debts; and live off the streets or something like that. This protector offers to buy their daughters! Upon hearing this, I couldn't keep it for myself but I also didn't want to inform the police. If Lucy's name or mine came out, I won't be able to help other young women and the ones I have helped will be endangered. Then I thought about you..."

Holmes was still sitting with closed eyes, seemingly unperturbed, although I was sure that this story had disgusted him as well.

"I know he is not the only one in London, let alone in the country, doing this sort of things, but I couldn't let it slip. I know this is not an intellectually challenging case but I hope that you, as a gentleman, will accept to help me".

Holmes finally opened his eyes. "What do you know of this man?"

"His nickname is Chalk because he directs his traffics from a billiard room. I don't know more, however. Lucy herself didn't know more or didn't want to tell more".

"Very well" Holmes stood suddenly "Miss Le Goff, would it be possible to anticipate your departure?"

I didn't understand what Holmes was talking about but Miss Le Goff smiled again: "Ah, you also have noticed that I leave every summer. I had planned to leave in a couple of weeks but I could depart next week instead."

"I would highly recommend it. If someone found out that this girl is your housemaid, it could become really dangerous".

Holmes was regarding Miss Le Goff with great attention. She was certainly a very peculiar lady - not every woman would have hired a former prostitute as a housemaid. As I had previously observed, however, my friend was not perturbed by the women's grace, beauty or intellectual brightness and Miss Le Goff was no exception.

The case was not an intellectually challenging one, as Miss Le Goff herself had said.

On that very night, Holmes went undercover in the East End, dressed like a poor sailor. I didn't go with him since the presence of a second man would have been suspect. My friend found out that Chalk worked next to an inn in St. Luke's. He went there and pretended that he had lost his job at the Docks, that he had no money to eat and pay the rent and that he now wanted to sell his older daughter. After a long discussion, they agreed upon the price and Holmes assured that he would have come back early in the morning with the girl. 

Needless to say, he came back with Lestrade and his men instead. Even if Chalk protested his innocence, an unfortunate young girl was found in the building with Big Martin, Chalk's assistant, guarding her. The two men were arrested and the police found out that Chalk had bought at least two dozens of poor young girls.

OOO

Before the case was over, Miss Le Goff and her housemaid had left for France and we didn't hear from her until the end of August, when she came back alone.

On August 26th we received a card inviting us for tea on the following day. The card specified that only the three of us were to be there.  
Holmes didn't like tea parties and society but he couldn't refuse such an invitation and on the following day we stood before Miss Le Goff's front door.

We were greeted by a new housemaid and soon Miss Le Goff was welcoming us in her living room.

Her flat was as peculiar as its inhabitant. The rooms and the furniture were elegant but not frivolous and without any tendency to luxury. There were lots of books, paintings, drawings and maps. Miss Le Goff, as usual, was wearing a high quality but plain looking white dress and her hair were simply braided back.

Holmes, as he always did in someone else's house, began exploring the room.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Le Goff, but examining living rooms and libraries is a weakness of mine, as Doctor Watson can confirm. They always reveal very much about their owner."

"And what does this particular room reveal about its owner? Well, I should say owners, because many books belonged to my father, who died two years ago".

Holmes turned to her and regarded her very attentively, as he had done upon our first meeting.

"Your father was a scientist, a man of letters, a polyglot, a staunch traveller, probably a violin player and - if I may - a very unconventional man. You were very close and the education he gave you was very peculiar for a lady. You are a polyglot yourself, you stay on top of the latest cultural news and you are -as it seems- a very good drawer"

Miss Le Goff was slightly surprised but she didn't ask how he knew all of that. Instead she went to observe the library, trying to figure it out herself.

"Well you have seen medicine, science and maths books that belonged to my father, as well as very old editions of Latin, French, English and German literature. Man of letters, scientist and polyglot is clear and it is also right - he was a doctor. Then..." she looked around, trying to figure out the rest as well, and Holmes regarded her without interrupting.

"Oh, yes, you saw the other violin on top of the library. That belonged to my father - also a violin player. Then… you probably figured out that he was a staunch traveller because there are many maps and travel records and because I grew up part in the United States, part in France and part in Britain. Then..."

She looked around again.

"You saw my drawing material on the table and you supposed that the few drawings at the walls are mine, which is correct" she continued.

She went back to the library and pointed at some books: "These have been published this year but I have already bought them, leading you to think that I am up to date about literature, which is also correct"

Eventually she looked at Holmes, somewhat baffled: "I still don't understand how you figured my father's unconventionality, my unconventional education and our close relationship out"

My friend seemed satisfied to know that she hadn't understood everything and took a book from the library with a smug smile.  
"This book is _'Thus spake Zarathustra'_ by Nietzsche, You have a German version and this volume was published in 1884, after your father died, then I assume that it belongs to you. Not every cultured young woman -or man, for that matter- reads a philosophy book in German. The newly published novels you pointed at" he said turning to the library again "are Emile Zola's _Germinale_ , Maupassant's _Bel-Ami_ and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, also unconventional choices for a lady. Therefore I presume that you had a very unconventional education. And not only do you have newly published novels but I see music records of Glazunov and Franck which are also new, thus your cultural interests are broad and strong"

He moved to the other side of the library and took out another book:

"This is Proudhon's _'de la justice dans la révolution et dans l'Eglise'_ , which, I believe, would not be welcomed in the average London club, and it is a 1858 first edition. There are also Charles Darwin, John Stuart Mill, Tocqueville, Thoreau. These rather peculiar books, your father's broad cultural interests, penchant for travel and the education he gave you, all make me think that he was rather unconventional."

Miss Le Goff was smiling openly.

"And probably the fact that I still keep all of these books here instead of storing them suggests to you that we were very close, which is also correct"

Holmes bowed to her with a hint of a smile.

"Gentlemen, let's not forget that I invited you for tea" said Miss Le Goff ringing the bell. The housemaid appeared again and soon the tea was served to us.

Holmes informed Miss Le Goff about how the case had ended with Chalk's arrest and asked about Lucy, who had been conveniently placed in a new house near Reims.

"I thank you for what you have done, Mr. Holmes. Of course he was not the only one doing this but even if we can spare that destiny to a single girl it is worth it"

My friend nodded in agreement and we went on talking quietly for a while. Upon hearing that I wrote records about every case, Miss Le Goff suggested that maybe I could take the next step.

"Have you ever thought about publishing these records Dr. Watson?" she asked. "Mr. Holmes' deductions are very interesting to hear and I am sure many of your cases were fascinating"

"This idea actually crosses my mind very often but it would take a great amount of time to make a novel or a story out of my notes and records"

"Well, I do hope that I will read about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson's adventures someday" she answered with a smile.

Upon returning to our flat, I realized that the only things I knew about Miss Le Goff were the ones Holmes had deduced. She hadn't said much about herself, about her life in the United States and in France, about why they had come to live in London, even if she had been pleasant and outspoken.

More than once I noticed that Holmes was almost staring at her with the most vivid look. For a moment, I even thought that she may have elicited some gentle feelings in my friend's heart.

"I forgot to ask her whether she has already read Lord Tennyson's new work 'Becket'. It was in the library as well" I said tentatively.

Sherlock Holmes shrugged: "Well, the case is over and I don't think that we will see her again. You should probably discuss this new book with your friend Thurston - If I remember correctly, he likes Tennyson as much as you do"

This cold dismissal made me interpret his interest for Miss Le Goff as a merely intellectual one and I didn't think about it for quite a time.

At the moment I still don't know whether I will publish these notes, since there is nothing special about the case. Holmes' forecasts that we would have probably never seen her again, however, was going to be proven completely wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading. I would love to hear what you think!  
> I chose the surname "Le Goff" to pay a homage to the French historian Jacques Le Goff


	3. Back to the States

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we find out something more about Gwenn's childhood

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, January 24, 1941**

It took quite a time to retrieve the record of my first meeting with Sherlock Holmes. I had never read it before and I was curious to find out what impression I had made at the time. 

While reading Dr. Watson's memoirs, I had to stop a couple of times because I was laughing too hard and my poor old spine was not happy with it.

So typical of Sherlock. He pretends to be annoyed when people can't follow the course of his deductions but he actually is a _drama queen_. He loves explaining his deductions and surprising people with them. He was very baffled when I tried to figure them out by myself. And the part about him dismissing me and telling Watson that they weren't going to see me again! Well, he may be good at deductions but not at prophecies, for sure.

Dr. Watson was right upon writing that I hadn't told much about myself - they hadn't too, by the way. But I do agree that it would be difficult to understand the story without knowing something about my life before I met Sherlock Holmes. So be it.

On January 11th almost 60 people were killed by a bomb in London, just outside the Bank of England. I must do something else or I will think about the war too much.

OOO

**Eastbourne, January 25, 1941**

I was born in 1859 in Madison. Yes, _that_ Madison, in Wisconsin. It was not a middle-sized city with some 50.000 inhabitants like today. At the time, the inhabitants were about 6000 (not bad considering that they had been 120 a few years before).

Why is the daughter of a French doctor born in Madison? Well, it's a complicated story.

My father –the unconventional man, as Sherlock Holmes had very correctly described him- was born in Brittany and went to Paris to attend university and then start his own career. His father was a lawyer- not very rich but able to pay for his studies.

My father was a staunch republican in a monarchic country and when insurrections to chase the king away started in 1848 he gladly participated, being rewarded with the end of the monarchy and the beginning of the second republic. Sadly, that didn't last long and in 1851 Napoleon III proclaimed himself emperor. My father was very unhappy with it and he had a feeling that Napoleon III was going to be around for a very long time because the people were tired of fighting. Moreover he had always wanted to travel. As soon as he could, he moved to the States, having heard wonders about the little explored lands, the beautiful landscapes, the bizarre animals.

His intention was to travel to the West but before that he wanted to make some money and to improve his English, so he settled down in Boston and took a job as a physician.

Then, something unexpected happened. He met my mother, twelve years younger than him, and he fell in love instantly. My grandparents didn't consent to her marriage with a doctor who wanted to travel, read questionable books, listened to questionable music and whose French ancestry undoubtedly made him a libertine (in my grandparents' opinion). My mother, a shy and reserved young lady who had never ever disobeyed her parents, decided to marry him nonetheless and endured her father refusing her a dowry and slapping her. After the marriage, she was banished from her parents' house and never spoke with her father anymore. After her death and for many years my grandparents didn't want to hear from my father or from me, accusing him of having brought about her death.

To my grandparents' great dismay, soon after their marriage she agreed to move to the West with him but they were forced to stop in Madison because of my mother's poor health. She became very easily fatigued and my father found out that she had a heart problem that he identified as Bouillaud's disease. Anyway, not daring to travel any further with her, he started a medical practice in the city.

Regretfully he couldn't help her and she died in early 1862. I remember very little of her: I recall that she sang nursery rhymes to me and spoke French with a strong accent with my father, and I remember my father helping her down the stairs because she was too weak. Until I read her diary, many years later, I had the heartbreaking sensation that I knew nothing about her.

My father was deeply tormented by the memories of my mother and he couldn't stay in Madison anymore. We moved first to Cedar Rapids, then to Sioux Falls (some 30 inhabitants at the time), then in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, until we finally arrived in Salem, Oregon, where we settled down for about two years.

I cannot even begin to explain what it was like to live in places like South Dakota, Montana and Wyoming at the time (and besides: those states were only territories at the time and not States yet). Or what it was like to cross the Rocky Mountains even though it was during the summer, thank God. In the early 1860s there was no railway yet in that region and we had to travel on carriages. Two Indian wars happened, the Sioux' one in 1862 and Red Cloud's one around 1866. We were not directly involved but we were near enough to stay awake the night. That is only to say, I became used to something-less-than-comfortable trips and to not-exactly-the-safest situations.

My father practiced as a physician and wrote essays about the Indian tribes, the vegetation, fauna and points of interest of those lands. It wasn't easy to earn a living, so he decided to invest his money in railroad stocks, finding himself in a comfortable financial situation in a few years.

One could think that my father was weird and even reckless, travelling across such regions with a small child but let me tell you this: when I was a child it was easy to find a buffalo there but it was even easier to find a strange person. Then -of course- we never travelled alone, even if I was almost always the only little girl in the company.

I couldn't receive a traditional education. My father, who was extremely cultivated, taught me to read, write, and draw (he was exceptionally versed for it). He taught me to play the violin, spoke to me in French and Breton languages; and, he told me about history, geography, literature, plants, animals, giving me a rather wide-ranging and deep education for my age and sex.

I think the idea of marrying again never crossed his mind. He wouldn't have been able to go where he wanted with a wife and maybe other children and it was definitely easier with only one daughter. Sensing that my education lacked something because of our circumstances, as soon as we settled down in Salem he sent me to learn embroidery, piano playing and the other little things that the average education of a young girl of that time included.

On one side I was happy to move to a city once we settled in Salem and then in Boston and I wouldn't have wanted to live my whole life in the wild. On the other side, however, the freedom I had, the experiences I made, the simple lifestyle I was used to and the wild and powerful nature I lived in have been fundamental in my life and I've always needed to immerse myself in nature once in a while.

My father didn't plan on spending his whole life in the States and wanted to go back to France sooner or later but the idea of doing that while Napoleon III was in power disgusted him and looked like surrender to him. After two years in Salem, however, he decided to travel back to New England and try once more to contact my grandparents, hoping that they would agree to meet me. In addition, by living in Boston we could travel very easily to Europe at any time.

Travelling from Oregon to Boston in 1869 was no funny business. Thank God there was now the railroad between California and Nebraska: we travelled to Sacramento and I took the very first train of my life, which left us in Council Bluffs, Iowa. From Iowa we took other trains to Chicago, then to Cleveland, then to New York and then finally to Boston, where we arrived at the beginning of December 1869.

Well, my hand is hurting now. I think I have done enough for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bouillaud disease is the old name of rheumatic carditis, a heart disease that could arise as a complication of scarlet fever. It was quite common before antibiotics. The inspiration for scarlet fever comes from the poem "Francis Turner" (in E. Lee Masters' "Spoon River Anthology")


	4. Mystery at Felton School - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock Holmes could use a female assistant

**Records of Dr. John Watson - 1886**

I have previously registered the case that led us to make acquaintance with the fascinating Miss Le Goff. At the time, Sherlock Holmes had declared that we probably wouldn't meet her again but he was proven wrong just a few months later.

It was a sunny but very cold morning in February 1886 when we received the unexpected visit of our friend, Inspector Lestrade. He entered our flat like a hurricane, still wearing his coat and scarf, and stood in front of my friend with a defiant look.

"Would you please tell me what this means, Mr Holmes?" he demanded taking a note pad out of his pocket and reading it out loud: " _Dear Lestrade, you are making a blunder with Bob Russell. SH_ " he recited, annoyed.

"It means exactly what I wrote, Lestrade" answered Holmes, stretching his legs "Bob Russell did not murder Miss Quinn"

That very morning I had read in the newspaper about the arrest of Bob Russell, gardener at the Felton Girls' School in Islington, accused of having murdered one of the school's teachers.

"And how have you come to that conclusion without even visiting the school and interrogating the people?" Holmes just smiled and the inspector rolled his eyes "If you say that he is innocent, Mr. Holmes, I already know it will turn out that he is innocent but I would at least like to know why!"

"Take off your coat and have a seat next to the fireplace, my dear inspector, and I will tell you how I came to this conclusion. But maybe it would be better if you could summarise the events for us. Doctor Watson only read about them this morning in the papers"

Lestrade sat next to the fireplace, still looking very grumpy, and took out his notebook.

"Very well. The Felton Girls' School is a school for girls between six and twelve years in Islington with around 130 pupils. Miss Sylvia Quinn was at Felton's from September and taught English to the girls who were between the ages of nine through twelve years. Yesterday morning she was found dead in the school's garden. She had been stabbed between ten p.m. and midnight. On her body there was evidence of struggle. On the evening before she had retired early as usual, around 8 p.m, and no one heard anything from her until her body was found. During the investigations it came out that this gardener, Bob Russell, has been stealing silverware and other items from the school. Our findings, the stabbing, the struggle, all clearly indicated that the murderer was a man. In the school there were no men apart from two older servants and Russell. Miss Quinn barely went out of the school and as far as we know she didn't have any male acquaintance. We concluded therefore that she saw Russell stealing and confronted him. So, Mr. Holmes, why do you believe Bob Russell to be innocent?"

"First of all because of a detail that you didn't utter but that was on the newspaper: Miss Quinn was still fully dressed even if she had retired to her rooms at 8 o'clock that evening. Second because, as you said, nobody heard her. If she had seen a robber, she would have run or cried an alarm. I don't believe that she saw a robber late in the evening and walked quietly and fully dressed to the garden hoping to stop him"

"Maybe she could have been on her way to the kitchen to get some hot water or tea"

"Possible. Was the stove still working at that time?"

Lestrade grimaced: "No, the stove doesn't work anymore after dinner"

"Anyway, let's assume that she went in the kitchen to fetch something. But if she surprised Russell in the kitchen, why did he not kill her there? And why did she follow him to the garden instead of crying for help? She could have had an appointment with him but why? Blackmailing a gardener? Unlikely. A teacher having an affair with the gardener? Possible but unlikely. So yes, I believe that he is innocent but I still don't know who killed her"

Lestrade took a deep breath and rolled his eyes again.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. It is unlikely" he said, sighing helplessly "Now I have to begin anew. But as much as it pains me to admit it, I cannot proceed further without help . I would be glad if you could take a look at the case"

"I will gladly accompany you to Islington, Inspector. But please, tell me what you found out about Miss Quinn"

"She was very reserved and left the school rarely. Actually she only left the school to go to the church with the pupils on Sunday. She kept regular contact with her sister, one Mrs Carruthers, and with an old childhood friend, Miss Thomas"

"And did you visit these two ladies?"

"Of course. Both of them were not aware of any male acquaintance"

"Did she receive any mail?"

"She used to receive letters from her sister and from Miss Thomas as well as a literature magazine. I spoke with the secretary who is in charge of the mail and she assured that Miss Quinn hasn't received letters from anyone else. By the way, she hadn't received any mail in the last four or five days"

"What about the garden? Did she use to go there?"

"The pupils and the teachers used to spend an hour there after lunch but she didn't use to go there alone.

"Did she have a particularly close relationship with her colleagues?"

"Not much, she had arrived just a few months ago"

Holmes stood up.

"Very well, then. Let's go to Islington"

OOO

Sherlock Holmes was silent and kept his eyes shut during the whole ride to Islington and Inspector Lestrade was still too grumpy to talk, therefore I stayed silent as well until we arrived.

The Felton Girls' School was a neat looking building with a large, well-tended garden. It was however evident from its general appearance and its interiors that the school was rather middle class.

We were greeted by the headmistress, Mrs Felton, who had founded the school together with her now late husband. She was tall, grey-haired and probably in her late fifties.

"I am very hopeful that you will soon solve the case, gentlemen. The idea that someone inside the school could be a killer is worrying parents, as you can imagine" she said.

"We will do our very best, madam. Rest assured, however, that it is very unlikely that the murderer works in this school" said Holmes.

Mrs Felton took a relieved breath. "But what is your idea on the matter, then?"

"I have many ideas at the moment. I must see the crime scene, Miss Quinn's bedroom and some other places before I can say more"

"Of course, you are free to look anywhere and to question anyone. I will be in my office if you need me"

The headmistress left us alone and first of all we walked where the unfortunate teacher's body had been found. Next to the school's back door there was a small arcade under which the body had been found. The school was surrounded by the gardens on its four sides; on three sides there was a lawn whereas in the back part where we were standing now there was a small grove. There was only one gate at the front and the rest of the garden was delineated by a hedge.

Holmes paced under the arcade, then crossed the small distance separating the arcade from the grove. Lestrade and I could see him walking slowly and carefully crossing the wood, stopping several times to look to the ground.

"Did your men search the grove as well?" he asked Lestrade coming out from the grove.

"No, I saw no reason to" the inspector answered curtly, imagining that Holmes had probably found something important there.

Afterwards we went to the teacher's bedroom, where Holmes searched everywhere and dedicated particular attention to the fireplace. When he stood up from the fireplace, however, he looked disappointed.

Upon returning to the garden, he stopped a servant and asked when it had rained the last time. The servant thought for a moment and answered "four days ago".

"Found anything, Mr. Holmes?" asked Lestrade once we were in the garden again.

"Yes. The murderer came from outside and not from the school and he had one pupil deliver a message -or more probably a note- to Miss Quinn. Since she went here to meet him at such a late hour, we must conclude that he was probably a romantic interest or former lover, likely someone from the military"

"Wait. A pupil delivered a message?"

"Please follow me and be careful not to stand on the footsteps" cut in Holmes walking in the grove once again.

Once we where in the middle of the wood, we noticed that a part of the ground was not covered in grass and two series of footsteps were visible on the ground.

"These footsteps are large, definitely left by a man and almost certainly by boots. Of course, not only officers wear boots but it is at least probable that our man is an officer You can see that the footsteps walking to the arcade are light, there is little space between them because the man was walking. The steps that go back to the hedge are deeper, with more distance between steps, because the man was running. You can see that some branches of the hedge have been ripped away, maybe when he quickly climbed on it. This hedge doesn't look well trimmed in this point, it is very unlikely that the footsteps belong to the gardener"

"But the pupil?"

Holmes guided us to a small spot of ground next to the hedge where some smaller footsteps were visible.

"This footsteps are small, they belong to a child. It rained four days ago, so they must be new. These two footsteps that are next to the hedge are very deep, sign that the child probably stopped here for quite a time. In this point the hedge is ripped and one can look inside and outside. But then this series of small footsteps is interrupted because the man with the boots walked upon them. One of the pupils was probably spotted and called by a man standing outside and she went to him. If he really was an officer, the child probably saw the uniform and thought that she had nothing to fear. Then she probably received a note -I don't think that he would have said his name or given an oral message to a child- and made an appointment with Miss Quinn"

"My compliments" muttered Lestrade with gritted teeth "I don't know if I should be disappointed or glad that you don't work for Scotland Yard... because if you did I would lose my job after a quarter of an hour"

"I believe you are underestimating yourself now, my dear Inspector" said Holmes, looking nevertheless pleased by the compliment. "And don't forget that I found out how she was killed but I still don't know by whom. And if the pupil received a note in a closed envelope it is possible that we won't find out the murderer's name, the pupil may not have read it. But if he felt the need to speak to Miss Quinn at such a time and in such a way, it was probably an urgent matter"

Holmes didn't look as satisfied as I expected him to be. After all we had done a lot of progress in a very short time.

"My compliments, Holmes!" I said cheerfully.

He grimaced: "It is not over, Watson. We need to find out which one of the 132 students of this school talked with the man and whether she has somehow read the note or not. Let's go back to the headmistress".

OOO

Mrs Felton listened to us with great attention.

"Well, it is a relief to hear that there is not a murderer among us. As for the note" she sighed "yesterday after lunch, after dinner and today after breakfast I personally told the girls that anyone who knows anything should speak with me or with one of the teachers. I will repeat it now that they are still at lunch but I honestly doubt that they will speak now if they have not done so far"

We followed the headmistress in the canteen, where all the pupils and the teachers were having lunch. Many eyes looked at us curiously as we stood behind the teacher's table with Mrs Felton.

"My dear students, these gentlemen are from the police and are investigating about our poor Miss Quinn. We have found out that someone wrote a note to Miss Quinn and that this note was probably delivered to her by one of you. If you have given a note, a letter, a message, anything to Miss Quinn on behalf of someone else please do speak up"

The headmistress went on and as she spoke I looked at the children. They were a lot and it was difficult to study the reaction of all of them. Some were looking at each other or talking softly, some others were looking intently at the headmistress, some others were looking anxious or even shocked but they had every right to be shocked after a teacher of theirs had been murdered.

As we went back to the headmistress' office I had an idea:

"Maybe they would talk more openly to a woman who is not a teacher of theirs. We could ask a woman to talk to the girls" I said.

"Mmph, I don't know if Mrs Hudson would do that..." he answered skeptically.

"Actually I was thinking about Miss Le Goff" I replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Mystery at Felton School - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Miss Quinn's murder is finally solved

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, March 14, 1941**

I've spent weeks looking for the second part of that record everywhere but I haven't found it, so I suppose I'll have to tell the rest of the story myself.  
No big deal: even if I am old my memory is still good, especially for events regarding Sherlock Holmes.

The last few weeks have been bad, continuous bombings and no progress in Paris, which is still occupied. My heart aches when I think of my friends who live there. Some days ago the US Congress passed an act allowing Britain to buy weapons from the States and pay them after the war. Will that be all or are we going to join this war at some point? Who knows...

Well, no more thinking about the war now. Let's go back to that early afternoon in February 1886 when I received an unexpected visit from Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

OOO

I found them in my living room, Dr. Watson sitting and Sherlock standing next to the fireplace. He was so different from the man I had met on our first two encounters! The composure he had shown back then was gone and now his eyes were sparkling, his cheeks were red and he was radiating energy. At first I thought that was because he had been outside in the cold but later I learned to associate this demeanour with a case which was progressing well.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Miss Le Goff" he said cheerfully "but we need your assistance in a delicate matter, if you will be so kind to help"

"I will gladly help you if I may" I replied, sitting down.

Sherlock told me about Miss Quinn's murder and his own investigations in a few clear sentences and half an hour later we were on our way to Islington.

Mrs Felton was as Dr. Watson described her: tall, grey haired and very sensible and composed. With her waited a slender, minute man. He was presented to me as Inspector Lestrade. He was playing with his gloves and looked somewhat nervous.

"There are 132 children" said Sherlock Holmes "I don't know if you will have time to see all of them"

"Then I will begin from the older ones" I answered confidently. Sherlock looked at me, somewhat perplexed, and I explained: "a smaller child would have betrayed herself, would have talked with her friends and somebody would have already confessed"

"Yes, that is likely" he agreed.

Before going to talk to the girls I wanted to visit Miss Quinn's room, to look at her picture and at what she kept there. She had possessed a quiet beauty, light coloured hair and eyes. A drawing of Saint Mary's Church in Guildford, where she had grown up, was hanging on a wall. There were different books in the library but the ones of Jane Austen and Lewis Carroll seemed to hold a special place.

OOO

The oldest girls were drinking their tea and making homework in a neat looking common room.

Mrs Felton presented me as an old friend of Miss Quinn and quietly left us alone after some minutes. There were about 20 girls in the common room, some of them looked at me curiously, others simply drank their tea. None of them, however, seemed openly defensive.

I sat between them and served myself a cup of tea. I talked about Miss Quinn, about her childhood in Guildford, about her sister, her love for books and for Jane Austen.

"She was always very kind, wasn't she?" I whispered, trying to look convincing. It was not very honest, pretending to have been her friend and playing a role, but it was all for a good cause.

"Yes!" many girls chorused with tears in their eyes.

"What were you studying with her in these last days?" I asked.

"In our very last lesson we read an extract from Pride and Prejudice, one about Elizabeth and Mr. Wichkam talking about Mr. Darcy… That was on the very afternoon before she…" said a blonde haired girl with freckles, lowering her eyes to hide the tears.

"Oh, yes. I remember that she adored that book" I replied.

Suddenly I remembered that Pride and Prejudice's Mr Wickham had been an officer too, just like Miss Quinn's assaulter. Was it just a coincidence?

"Did Miss Quinn tell you what happened to Mr Wickham eventually?" I asked cautiously.

"Yes!" answered another girl, a slender one with green eyes and curly red hair "At the very end of the lesson! She told us that Elizabeth liked him at first but then she found out that he wasn't a real gentleman, he lied and he wasted all of his money with cards"

"Indeed" I said. The sensation that her last lesson about Mr. Wickham was not a coincidence became stronger. "It is very important to know a person well before marrying"

"She told us the very same thing" a third girl cut in "she said that Elizabeth learned the truth about him before it was too late"

It was time to play another card.

"You know…" I said almost hesitantly "Miss Quinn once told me that she had met an officer, a seemingly nice person. I wonder if this officer turned out to be like Mr. Wickham in the end – he probably did since she didn't talk about him anymore" The same red haired girl looked at me with wide eyes and asked "Do you mean that she talked about Mr. Wickham on purpose, Miss? And that maybe this officer…" her voice trailed off and the girls looked at each other, struck.

And then what I had been expecting happened. A minute girl with black tresses, who had been silently drinking her tea so far, started trembling even so slightly and put the cup on the table with a brisk movement. I tried not to openly look at her but her lips were definitely trembling and she shot worried looks at me.

"I don't know what to think. I cannot imagine anybody doing something like this to such a gentle, kind person like Miss Quinn" I said standing "Now I must leave. It has been nice to remember the poor Sylvia with you"

The girls bade me goodbye and some of them stood and took their books or their cups. The black-haired girl I had noticed stood swiftly, forgot to take the cup that still rested on the table and quickly walked away. I took her cup of tea and left the common room. In the corridor, I could see her entering the last room on the right side with a hurry.

I waited for the other girls to reach their rooms, then I went back to the black haired girl's room and knocked lightly. Getting no answer, I opened the door and entered. She was sitting on the bed with her hands covering her mouth. She wasn't crying but burst into sobs upon seeing me. I sat beside her, taking her on my lap.

"You forgot you cup in the common room" I said gently "I wanted to bring it back to you".

As I rocked her, my eyes wandered in the simply furnished room and fixed on a photograph on the bedside table. There she appeared with other three persons: a middle aged couple and a young man with a royal horse artillery uniform.

"The young man in that picture is your brother, isn't he?" I asked.

"Yes!" she sobbed "He is Philip! He… I saw him behind the hedge and he said he had something for me… and… he asked me to give this note to Miss Quinn…"

"And did he tell you what it was about?"

"He said… that he knew her and wanted to meet her and I gave her the note. She was so shocked! She thought he didn't know that she was here!"

She sobbed hard now and I rocked her slowly, trying to calm her. I was extremely surprised that she could have kept such a thing for herself. It must have been torture for her.

"When I was home at Christmas… I told him about this new teacher, Miss Quinn… I told him!"

"And do you know why he wanted to meet her on that very day? Where is he now?"

"He is with his brigade in Woolwich… I don't know why he wanted to meet her so urgently… I know he's done wrong but I… he will be…" she burst into sobs again.

I had tears in my eyes myself: "I know it is hard. Nobody will hold you responsible for not speaking up, he is your brother and of course you love him. But he hasn't been fair with you and he has been vicious with Miss Quinn. Forcing you to take part to this, his sister… he doesn't deserve your help"

I scooped her up in my arms. I didn't dare to leave her alone but I had to inform the others about my discovery.

"What is your name, my child?"

"Pauline Harris" she whispered.

"Now come with me. Is there a teacher you are particularly fond of?"

"I was fond of Miss Quinn…" she said miserably "but also the music teacher, Miss Stone…"

"Well then. We will call her and she will take care of you. Now let's go. I am very sorry but we cannot allow your brother to go on like this"

I went back to the headmistress' office, where Mrs Felton, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and the Inspector were waiting. Sherlock looked at me, surprised: he didn't think I would have succeeded and that irritated me so much that I almost glared back at him.

Mrs Felton didn't ask any question and helped me to get Pauline on a sofa in the small living room next to the office. As soon as Miss Stone was there, we left Pauline to her care and went back to the others.

"The officer was Pauline's brother, Philip Harris. He is with his brigade at Woolwich now, Royal Horse artillery. I still don't know why he did it, Pauline doesn't know as well, but my guess would be that he is a gambler or something of the sort and wanted her to flight with him"

"What brings you tot hat conclusion, if I may?" asked Dr. Watson, surprised.

"A few hours before she was killed, Miss Quinn gave a lesson about Pride and Prejudice and talked about a character, an officer who turns out to be a gambler and flights with a young lady. I don't know if I am right, it is just my impression" I explained.

OOO

Harris was arrested on that very day.

He was a gambler and was going to be soon exposed because he hadn't paid his honour debts. Therefore he wanted to leave the country bringing Miss Quinn with him. When she refused, he killed her. After that, he didn't have the strength to try and leave alone and waited for someone to get him, either for the murder or for the gambling. Pauline left the school, she couldn't bear staying at Felton after news of her brother became public.

I was informed of all of that on the following day, when Sherlock and Dr. Watson invited me for tea at Baker Street.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Le Goff. Even if the case was already clear, we probably wouldn't have found the murderer without your contribution" said Dr. Watson cheerfully.

Of course the idea of involving me in the first place had been his, just like the idea of inviting me for tea.

"Yes, thank you very much" said Sherlock from his favorite armchair next to the fireplace. I wasn't sure if he was wary of me or of women in general but I decided to go for the latter and said "You have to thank two women, Mr. Holmes - Jane Austen and myself. Without reading Pride and Prejudice I probably wouldn't have understood"

I smiled looking at him in the eye, almost daring him to contradict me. Luckily for him, he didn't.

During the rest of that tea, Dr. Watson and I chatted together, while Sherlock listened to us and very rarely spoke. More than once, however, I felt his most piercing gaze on me as Dr. Watson questioned me about my life in the States and in France.

"I have never crossed the Atlantic myself and I must admit that I am very curious" Watson was telling me.

"And you, Mr. Holmes? Have you crossed the Atlantic?" I asked.

"I am afraid that I haven't as well" he answered „But I don't leave London other than for cases, so it is not surprising that I haven't"

After that he closed up again. At the end of tea, I knew much about Dr. Watson but almost nothing about Sherlock Holmes. I wasn't quite able to figure him out. There was something more, something behind his obstinate reserve, something swirling in his apparent composure. I wanted to know what he hid behind the façade, whether the energy and kindness that I perceived were real. And then he was good looking, oh yes. He had these piercing grey eyes, dark hair and such gracious movements. In the following days I thought about him and looked at his windows more than I liked.

OOO

**Eastbourne, March 22, 1941**

Of course, after writing the whole story by myself I found the second part of Dr. Watson's one as well. It makes no sense to add his whole record to this one but I laughed upon reading his observations after their tea with me

**Records of Dr. John Watson, 1886**

During our pleasant tea together, Holmes had never stopped scrutinizing Miss Le Goff with his most piercing gaze. If I hadn't known him so well I would have thought that he had feelings for her. But this was Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't possible!

"Interesting lady, don't you think?" I asked conversationally.

"Your fascination with the gentle sex is unfailing, my dear Watson" he said with a smile, proving my point.

"Yet you seemed to share what you call my fascination this time" I answered in the same tone.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading: "Did I?"

"Well, if you stare at a lady like that she may very likely think that you are fascinated with her, especially a perceptive lady like Miss Le Goff"

"Dear Watson, you know me well enough to be aware that this staring of mine is a professional one" he reasoned.

"Yes, I do, but Miss Le Goff probably doesn't and she has most certainly noticed your gaze" I explained.

Holmes rose his eyebrows: "I think you are overreacting, my friend" he said lightly before going back to his newspaper.

OOO

Here you have seen a typical display of Sherlock and his awareness of his own feelings,

Well, I've written more than enough for today. Let's hear what bad news the BBC radio will bring to us today...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" is quoted in this chapter and has partly inspired it.


	6. The City on a Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn and her father go back to Boston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\- "The city on a hill" is one of Boston's nicknames**   
>  **\- For French people reading: I know that a Breton man called Gael is cliché but it sounded good**   
>  **\- In my mind, Gwenn's father looks like the French singer Severin, with the same hair**   
>  **\- I chose the surname "Fallon" for Gwenn's mother because I was looking for an Irish surname... and I thought about Jimmy Fallon =D**

**Eastbourne, June 24th, 1941**

The Nazis invaded the Soviet Union!

Well, if someone still had doubts about the moustache's mental sanity, this one should put an end to them!

"Your emperor Napoleon made a huge _faux pas_ invading Russia, I hope the same goes for Hitler as well" said Sherlock upon hearing the news.

I hoped that as well.

I haven't written in forever but I had other things to do.

There is another big reason why I don't want to think about the war other than the fear of dying without witnessing its end. One of my grandsons is in North Africa, the other one has come back to Britain after Dunquerque but could be called back at any time. The latter, Harry, had a short leave and visited us since both my daughter and her husband are busy with their service.

For a few days, I simply took care of my boy. I baked him cookies, let him play piano for me, we even went to the movies. I wanted to avoid the whole war topic and to watch Hitchcock's _Rebecca_ but he insisted on watching Mr. Chaplin's _The Great Dictator_. It was actually a good idea and we both felt better afterwards.

Harry left yesterday and now I must begin to write again, otherwise I will be thinking about my boys all the time.

OOO

I have previously written about our arrival in Boston in December 1869 and that the main reason for going back to Boston was my father's hope that my grandparents would eventually meet me.

For me, it was the first time in a really big city and my impression was ambivalent. On one side there were so many interesting things to do, on the other side I was used to seeing nature, animals and wildness and a city made of streets and buildings confused me.

On our second day, my father announced that we would visit my grandparents in South Boston. He dressed very elegantly and instructed me to do the same. Before heading to my grandparents', however, we went to the Atlantic.

It was my first after the Pacific Ocean and my father contemplated it longingly.

"On the other side, far away, there is France" he whispered.

"I love the sea" I said, inhaling deeply. During our long travel from Sacramento to Boston I had missed the ocean's smell greatly.

My father smiled "Then you are a true Breton, like me" he said.

We sat on a bench together and my father spoke cautiously: "I must warn you, Gwenn, that we may not be welcome at your grandparents'. If this happens, please don't take it personally"

"Why shouldn't we be welcome?" I asked. I was actually curious to meet them.

"When your poor mother died, your grandparents said that it was my fault, that our travel to Madison had made her ill. Of course this wasn't the case – our travel to Madison had been a safe one and we lived there for five years before she died, but your grandparents didn't want to hear it"

"What they say is not fair!" I burst out, outraged.

"No but your mother had been their only daughter and I understand that they cannot be reasonable. Until now I accepted their wish not to see both of us again but it would be cruel to leave the States without letting them see you".

After this short warning we went to my grandparent's house, one of those typical New England houses that one sees in movies. A young maid opened the door to us and looked at us, surprised. Guests were not usual in the house.

"I am Mr. Le Goff, Mr and Mrs Fallon's son-in-law, with my daughter" my father introduced himself while she let us in.

"Who is there, Elizabeth?" asked a voice from afar. After a moment, my grandmother emerged from a door behind Elizabeth's shoulders.

She didn't look like the woman I had seen in the photographs. Her hair were now completely white and she wore a mourning dress and a matching black cap. She was rolling a piece of white wool into a ball with pale, bony hands.

Upon noticing my father, she became even paler and hissed in outrage. Then she saw me. She staggered, looking at me with wide eyes and leaning on a sideboard for support.

"Good morning, Mrs Fallon" said my father quietly.

"Elizabeth, lead the guests in the living room. I will be there soon" she said without answering his greeting.

We waited for several minutes in the living room and I used that time to look around. On the fireplace mantel there were several photographs and I went to look at them. I recognized my parents' wedding one, with my mother's face, framed by tresses, shining with happiness and my father looking lovingly at her from behind his glasses, his curly hair even wilder than now. There were other pictures I had never seen, two of my parents with me and one of my father and me together, surely taken after my mother's death. My parents had sent those pictures in an attempt to restore a relationship with my grandparents but it had not worked.

Suddenly I heard the rustling of a gown and my grandmother appeared, looking subdued. She didn't even glance to my father but went to sit in front of me.

"I am happy to meet you, Gwenn. You look very much like your mother" she said with a smile.

"Thank you, grandmother" I replied.

"It is a pity that your grandfather cannot meet you as well. Unfortunately, he is not with us anymore. Too much suffering" she added, turning to glare at my father.

"I am very saddened. When did it happen?" he asked without minding her reproachful manners.

"Last winter" she replied curtly.

She asked me many questions about where we had lived and about my education, tightening her lips upon hearing that my father had tutored me himself but looking pleased when I informed her that I had also studied piano and embroidery.

"That's good to hear. Would you please play something for me?" she asked.

I went to the piano and decided that my grandmother would most likely enjoy Handel, so I played a piece from his water music. Eventually she clapped. "That was very well done, my dear"

Unexpectedly, she turned to my father and asked coldly, "What are your intentions, Mr Le Goff?"

"We will go back to France in the future but not now. We will stay in Boston for several months to say the least"

OOO

As I had suspected upon meeting her, her health wasn't good. She tried her best, especially when I was there, but almost every time that we paid an unexpected visit she was in bed because of her weak heart and tired very easily. I never saw her outside her house.

So we settled in Boston and my father started his medical practice again. In Boston, I went to the first real concert of my life and I set foot for the first time in a museum, two experiences that I still remember after so many years. Not living in the wild anymore had its advantages.

In the following months I visited my grandmother regularly, playing piano and embroidering with her and sometimes drawing for her. My father always accompanied me and even if my grandmother clearly didn't like it she also didn't dare tell him not to come with me, fearing that she wouldn't see me anymore as well.

With me she was always tender and overjoyed to spend her time with me. She had my drawings framed and hung in her bedroom. She made me a dress and a cap. She showed me my mother's belongings and left some of them to me.

Even if my father understood that she was deeply aggravated with him, it wasn't easy for him. He was _very_ French and he usually took offences accordingly. My grandmother was a lady and she was old but this can only partly explain the quiet way he endured her accusations. More than compassion, it was probably my mother's memory that kept him from breaking any contact with my grandmother, especially after what happened in the summer of 1870.

One day I was in my grandmother's garden picking flowers for her when I heard her voice –uncharacteristically loud- from the open window.

"You were ready to _dishonour_ her!" she yelled.

At the time I didn't know what it meant but from my father's voice when he answered it had to be pretty bad.

"I would have never done such a thing! I am a gentleman and I won't accept any offence on this point!" he wasn't yelling but sounded outraged.

"Don't you dare lie to me! She told us ' _either you let me marry him or I will run away with him_ '"

Here there was a long pause, then my father asked with the strangest voice "Grace said _that?_ I didn't… On my honour, I would not have run away with her and even if you don't like me I hope that your consideration for your son-in-law is not so flawed. I didn't think that Grace would have come to such…"

"Oh, you didn't _think_. She was crazy for you! She would have done _anything_!"

"That doesn't mean that I would have agreed to that, however!" he replied sternly. My grandmother dropped the subject but for a long time there was even more tension than usual between them.

In September there came news that Napoleon the Third was held captive after the French defeat at Sedan. My father wasn't happy about that defeat – it would be simply false to state the contrary – but he gloated for the probable end of Napoleon's empire.

My grandmother was clearly terrified upon hearing it, thinking that we would leave soon.

"No, it would not be safe to leave now. I was there in 1848 and I know how France can be like in such times" said my father.

"So you you don't plan on leaving in the next weeks?" she asked, trying to hide her concern.

My father cocked his head to the side and said slowly: "Mrs Fallon, I am aware of your health conditions and we will definitely not leave the continent while you are in this state"

My grandmother looked almost moved. After that, she stopped glaring at my father and accusing him, even if she was still cold to him.

After Christmas 1871 my grandmother's health suddenly worsened so much that my father decided to move to her house and for the very first time I heard her thank him, even if stiffly.

Once there, I spent most of the time in her bedroom, reading to her and tiptoeing away when she fell asleep.

One day at the end of January 1872, my father and I were having breakfast (alone, since my grandmother hadn't come out of bed in the last weeks). Suddenly we heard a hustle and Elizabeth ran into the room with teary eyes.

"Please go to her, Doctor Le Goff! She wants to see you, I'm afraid she is…"

My father ran upstairs and I followed him. She was breathing heavily, her lips almost blue. Upon seeing my father, she lifted a trembling hand.

"Gael…" she whispered with great effort.

It was the first time that I heard her calling him by his first name.

"Yes, I am here" he said, taking her hand into his and squeezing it gently.

She tried to speak several times but could never catch her breath.

"Easy, easy. I am here" soothed my father, bending to her in an attempt to hear what she was trying to say.

With a huge effort, my grandmother finally gasped: "It was not your fault… forgive me"

"There is nothing to forgive" he said softly.

"Everything… I said to you… forgive me please…" she stuttered, starting to cough.

My father looked so moved that I thought he was going to cry. I had never seen him like this.

"Of course I forgive you. I forgive you. Now try and breathe, nice and slow" he said caressing her hand.

She took her eyes off him and looked at the bedside table on her right side. "Open it" she whispered.

My father complied and took out a small book with a dark red cover. He opened it and inhaled sharply. Peeking over his shoulder, I could read Grace Fallon Le Goff - Diary" on the first page.

"Take it" my grandmother said faintly.

"Thank you"

My father was beyond words and he held the diary for another moment in his hands before putting it on the bedside table and holding her hand again.

Now my grandmother fixed her gaze on me, breathing even more heavily.

"God bless you, Gwenn…" she said so weakly that I read the words on her mouth more than hearing them.

After some moments it was clear that she didn't understand us anymore, even if she was still breathing.

"Do you prefer to leave, darling? Your grandmother is going to die soon" he said gently, turning to me.

"No, I want to stay"

He motioned for me to sit on his lap and held me to him with one arm, his other hand still wrapped around my grandmother's. For several minutes she breathed heavily, then I couldn't hear her breathing anymore but I still saw her chest rising, again and again, slower and slower, until she didn't move anymore, her eyes still open but now empty.

My father gently reached over to her face and closed her eyes. I burst into sobs. He held me tight and rocked me, whispering soothing words in French, until the sobs were gone.

"You were very brave to stay until the end. I am sure it was a great relief for her" he comforted me.

OOO

After the funeral, my father decided to leave for France. His only relatives there were an aunt and a cousin who owned a fabric shop in Paris. But even though he was on very good terms with them I think the main reason to go back was his desire to see his land again after eighteen years.

My grandmother left her legacy to me, with my father as a tutor. He received a box with all of the letters my mother and he had written to my grandparents, with all of their photographs and other personal items of my mother's. I still have the very same box in my bedroom.

My father organized a real estate agent to sell the house and settled the other business he still had in the States, including his railway stocks and the practice he had rented. Two weeks after the funeral, we left.

Well, now it is time to go to bed. My eyes are closing.


	7. 3rd Symphony at St. James's Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn and Mr. Holmes meet at a concert and talk about a case...

**Gwenn's POV**   
**Eastbourne, August 11, 1941**

President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill met on Newfoundland a few days ago. Apparently they signed an agreement for after the war but I wonder if there's more. I have a growing feeling that the States will soon join the war.

We will see.

OOO

It was a warm evening in May 1886 and I was at St. James's Hall. Camille Saint-Saens in person was going to direct his new 3rd Symphony in C, an event I had been looking forward to for weeks. I had even delayed my departure for France to attend.

I arrived early and I was looking for my seat when I noticed Sherlock Holmes, alone, in an immaculate white tie.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes!" I greeted him. I considered him good-looking even before but in that suit he was handsome and dashing. His countenance was full of the quiet energy that I was beginning to recognise.

"Good evening, Miss Le Goff" he replied with a slight bow.

We exchanged some pleasantries, then I asked: "Does Dr. Watson not like symphonies?"

"He enjoys them a great deal but he has a raging back pain and he preferred to stay in bed"

"Oh, what a pity, missing Saint-Saens!"

While talking, we had reached my seat.

"You can take Dr. Watson's ticket if you wish. We have very good seats next to the stage… the advantages of having solved a little problem for the theatre's administration" he offered.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, gladly!"

He handled me the ticket and we walked to the second row, where I sat beside him. The concert was beginning in ten minutes and we spent them talking about music.

"I must confess I am surprised that you like Saint-Saens, Mr. Holmes. I thought you preferred German musicians"

He shot me a surprised look and I knew that I had hit the target.

"As a matter of fact I do. German musicians are my favourite ones, I like their depth and introspection. But there are also several French composers that I appreciate and Saint-Saens is one of them".

Soon the concert began and we were completely taken by the music. The great Saint-Saens, with his benevolent gaze and his soft-looking white beard, moved smoothly on the stage, his arms almost fluctuating in the air. The music was by far Saint-Saens' best symphonic work. The superb "Maestoso", with the power of the organ and the gentleness of the piano and strings, was simply breathtaking.

Sometimes I shot a glance at Sherlock Holmes and found him very different from the composed man I had seen so far. He leaned back on his chair with his eyes shut and a small smile on his lips. His hands moved gracefully, following the music's tempo. He breathed slowly but so deeply that sometimes I could hear him inhaling.

When Saint-Saens lifted his baton at the end we both didn't move, mesmerized.

OOO

During the interval, Sherlock Holmes chivalrously offered to fetch me something to drink but I felt fine. We both preferred to stay in our seats.

"Any interesting cases lately, Mr. Holmes?"

He was in a very conversational mood, probably because of the music. He told me about the case he had just solved, which would later be published with the title "A case of Identity". In case you're wondering: no, the young woman's real name was not Mary Sutherland and her stepfather's one was not James Windibank. Besides, the story took place before "A Scandal in Bohemia" and not after it. Dr. Watson always changed the clients' names and often the dates and places, not wanting to expose the people who had sought their help.

Sherlock Holmes told me about this young lady whose fiancée had disappeared leaving her at the altar, after making her swear on the Bible that she would never brake their bargain. He then revealed to me that the "fiancée" was the lady's stepfather, who had disguised himself to upset her and ensure that she would not marry.

"But why should one do such a thing?" I asked, surprised.

"The young lady inherited some stocks from an uncle and she is currently leaving the interests to her family. That is, as long as she lives with them" he explained.

"Is he doing all of this just for some pounds"

"He is doing much more. He came to my house and mocked me admitting his actions but also telling me that I could do nothing against him. I went after him with my riding crop but he fled" he concluded grimacing.

"And how did she react when you informed her?" I asked.

"I did not inform her" he answered curtly.

"I beg your pardon? She was treated shamefully!"

"Indeed. But what would she do if I told her that her suitor doesn't exist? I am confident that she would not believe me" he said with a shrug.

"And does this confidence result from something objective or just from prejudice?" I snapped. He looked at me, slightly surprised. This display of presumption and arrogance confirmed my impression that his opinion about women was flawed.

"Prejudice?" he repeated.

"Yes. Maybe you presumed that she would react that way because she is a woman and not because of her personality" I explained trying to be polite.

He reflected about it for some time, then he spoke slowly.

"If something like that had happened to you or to one of the many sensible women I have met because of my job… I would have informed you. The point is that you -or another sensible woman- would have noticed that something was wrong while she blissfully ignores it"

"Well, let's assume that the young lady is not the brightest one" he raised both eyebrows at me at this "but that doesn't mean that she is not going to believe you. Besides, I think that accusing her of blissfully ignoring something is a bit unfair".

From his gaze it was obvious that he dearly wanted to contradict me but he was too gentlemanly to do it.

"Try to step into her shoes, Mr. Holmes. Her stepfather wants her to stay at home, so she doesn't attend events of any kind, she doesn't meet new people. And then comes this man who treats her gently and offers her an escape from her suffocating family. All she has to do is to accept his quirks"

"She has a job and enough money to live by herself" he retorted.

"Yes but she is not a man. Not many young ladies would leave their parents' house while still unmarried even if they have means to do so. She is probably quite a shy person and doesn't even think about it".

He opened his mouth to reply but the second part of the concert was announced and we went back to the music.

OOO

In the second part, Saint-Saens delighted us with some older pieces: _marche heroique, une nuit á Lisbonne, la jota Aragonese, Hymne á Victor Hugo_. But even if I was enjoying the music greatly, a slight annoyance prevented me from relaxing completely. I knew that I was right and Mr. Holmes' patronizing attitude just irritated me. He was brilliant and kind-hearted: why did he have to be like this?

When the concert was over, we took a cab. I stayed silent or gave one-word answers, too annoyed to speak.

I spoke again only when we were at the end of Bond Street.

"My mother always obeyed her parents, Mr. Holmes. But when they told her that she could not marry my father she did it nonetheless, even if she was banished from their house and their presence because of it. You never can tell"

"Maybe you are right" he answered after a moment and I turned to him, almost shocked.

"I will try to reveal the truth to her"

OOO

On the following day, I gave the last violin lesson before my usual departure for France. When I came back I found a small note waiting for me.

I opened it and found just three words and a signature:

_"You were right. SH"_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading!
> 
> \- Camille Saint Saens' 3rd Symphony actually premiered in St. James's Hall in May 1886, with Saint-Saens as a director. I don't know if there was a second part in that concert so I invented that there was one.
> 
> \- The inspiration to write about Mary Sutherland came from the fiction "The fate of Miss Sutherland" that I read on fanfiction.net


	8. A homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gewnn and her father go back to France

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **-"A homecoming", originally "Une journée á la maison" in French or "Un dewezh 'Barzh 'Ger" in Breton language, is an album by the Breton folk singer Alain Stivell (the album is great, by the way. "The Apple tree" is one of my favourite songs ever)**
> 
> **\- Douarnenez is a real town in Brittany**
> 
> **\- "Annig" is a Breton given name**
> 
> **\- I don't know whether the trains from Brest arrived at the Gare Montparnasse back then but now they do**

**Gwenn's POV**

Here in England the weather at the beginning of Fall is just _lovely_. Long story short: I spent a week in bed with rheumatisms and I needed another one to be fully operational again.

The war is depressing. The Nazis are sieging Leningrad and I wonder how long the Soviets will be able to resist. President Roosevelt ordered our Navy to shoot on sight if our ships are threatened but further decisions have not been made. Will I see the end of this?

Well, let's stop thinking about the war and let's go on with the story.

OOO

My father and I left the US in March 1872. I've heard many people complain about how unpleasant the transatlantic travels are but I enjoyed our trip immensely. The ocean was not stormy and I liked the gentle rolling and pitching of ours ship, whereas other passengers were sea sick.

My father was clearly overjoyed by my close relationship with the sea.

"I am a sea-loving Breton and you are my worthy daughter!" he mused.

After eight days we reached the first French port, Saint-Nazaire. We didn't get off the ship because we had to travel further until Brest.

My father, who usually had a cheerful countenance and always had a line for everything, was deeply moved to see his land again after seventeen years. For a good quarter of an hour, he leaned on the railing, his gaze fixed on the mainland, without moving and without speaking. I think that he didn't trust his voice.

In Brest we finally got off the ship. Everybody was speaking either French or the Breton language that my father sometimes used with me and the air smelled like salt and fresh fish.

My father looked around, smiling broadly. "It is so wonderful to be here after so much time!" he breathed.

He spotted a man in a naval uniform and asked: "Excuse me, sir, I haven't been here in a long time: is it possible to travel to Paris by train?"

The man laughed."You have been away for a long time indeed! There is a train route from Brest to Paris… since 1865!"

"And from Quimper?"

"From Quimper as well"

"Great!" exclaimed my father. We ate lunch in a small fish restaurant and then took the ferry to Douarnenez, where my father was born.

Brittany was love at first sight. It was different from any other place I had visited. There were rough coasts and cliffs with Brooms and Dragon's teeth fighting to grow.. The grass had the vivid colour of the lands where rain is common. The powerful wind brought the sea's smell everywhere and let the weather change constantly. There were medieval churches and megaliths I had never seen before. Brittany is still wild, back then it was even wilder.

Once in Douarnenez, a carriage brought us to the cottage where my father was born, about two miles away from the town centre. At some point my father, who had stayed silent for the entire ride, said softly "here we are".

We had reached a small, lovely cottage and I noticed with great joy that the garden had a view on the bay.

"This place is wonderful!" I told my father.

He smiled. "It is indeed".

Before departing, my father had written to his cousin Fabrice to inform him that we were arriving and stopping in Brittany for some days. A maid sent by Fabrice had cleaned up and prepared the cottage for us.

On the following few days we went for long walks on the seaside and in the village. I fell in love with the small harbours and the pastel colours. All things considered, Douarnenez is still the place where I feel at home, even more than Boston, Paris, London or Eastbourne. With few exceptions, I spent every summer there from that year on

After some days my father decided that it was time to go to Paris. We woke up early, took once again the ferry to Brest and took the train for Paris, where we arrived in the afternoon.

I had already seen a very big city before since our transatlantic had departed from New York. But Paris was something else.

Paris was still bigger and more populous than New York at the time. The Gare Montparnasse was so crowded that I unusually held my father's hand tightly until we were out of it. During the short ride to Rue Monge, where my father's relatives lived, I could never take my eyes off the window. I wasn't accustomed to seeing such immensely old buildings, churches and palaces that had been built 500 years before.

"Paris has changed immensely" said my father slowly. "I had heard about Hausmann's renovation but this is far more than I expected"

"I find it wonderful" I said dreamily.

My father laughed: "That is good because we are going to spend quite some time here"

Finally the cab left us in front of Tissus Arnault, the fabric shop owned by my father's aunt. It was a large, elegant looking shop, with well-tended windows. My father knocked on the door next to it and soon a maid let us in. We had just sat down in the living room when the door opened and a tall man appeared.

"Fabrice!" cried my father, rushing to hug him.

Fabrice, my father's cousin, had just turned fifty and had taken over the shop from his old mother. He and my father were quite close because my father had lived with the Arnaults during his university years. Furthermore, he and Fabrice had fought together in 1848. When Napoleon took power, Fabrice decided to stay in France, mostly because he didn't want to leave his mother alone.

"And you are Gwenn! My word, you are as beautiful as your mother!"

"But not as her father!" my father joked, winking.

"Well, then she's a lucky girl!" chided a voice from behind me.

I turned to see an old lady smiling at me. She wore a mourning dress just like my grandmother had but she looked very different. She seemed to be both healthier and more content than my grandmother had been.

"Aunt Annig, it is nice to see that your sense of humour is still the same!" said my father, kissing her on the cheeks.

We spent a beautiful evening in Rue Monge. Fabrice's wife, Julienne and their two children, Jean-Baptiste and Céline, all joined us for dinner. Jean-Baptiste was in his early twenties and, as my father said, "an exact copy of Fabrice". He worked with his parents in the shop. Céline was one year older than me and had inherited her mother's black locks. None of them had ever been to the States and they asked all sorts of questions both to my father and to me. They complimented me on my French and laughed good-heartedly at my Breton accent.

I wasn't used to such a large family gathering. It was somewhat loud but also very enjoyable and Fabrice's family quickly became my own.

Céline was more reserved than me and she very soon confessed that she didn't like to travel at all.

In the States I had met other children and young girls of my age and I became friends with some of them but Céline was my first true friend. After just a few weeks we knew everything about each other and we spent a lot of time together at Fabrice's house or in the neighborhood. Despite our different personalities, Céline became like the sister I had never had (well, I suppose since I have no siblings). Her death, a few years ago, saddened me deeply.

OOO

**Eastbourne, 10.10.1941**

All quiet on the Western front - and on the Eastern front as well. In short, nothing new.

OOO

The so-called "Wild west", the Indians and that particular period of our history aroused curiosity in France. The number of Frenchmen who had been there and had written something of interest was small. My father easily found an editor who published his collection of essays and some of them were also published in newspapers and magazines. Afterwards, many natural science societies, museums and even universities invited him to hold speeches. He continued to work as a doctor at Hopital Lariboisiére but this slowly became his second job.

"For the first weeks we lived with Fabrice and his family but both my father and I were not used to living with so many people. Eventually my father found an apartment in Montmartre, which reminded him of how Paris looked like before the renovation. In addition, the Hopital Laribosiére was just a 15 minutes walk from our apartment.

The eight years we spent in Paris were incredible. It was the beginning of the so-called " _Belle Epoque_ ", the almost fifty years between the Battle of Sedan and the First World War when there were no wars in Europe. The memory of the _Commune_ was still fresh in the people's (and especially the politicians') minds. Art flourished and if you were an artist of any kind Paris was the place to be. This was especially true for Montmartre. Painters like Van Gogh, Pissarro and Renoir lived there those years. Whenever my father was free, I begged to go for walks, wanting to explore every inch of the city. During the first years, I was far too young to wander alone.

I also spent lots of time with Céline in the apartment above the shop. Although I was not interested in commerce, those fabrics fascinated me. I liked inspecting Fabrice's new arrivals and (carefully) touching the muslin, organza, and piqué rolls. Julienne, Fabrice's wife, taught me lots of things about fabrics and tailoring. Although I usually dress plainly, I still love a beautiful fabric.

OOO

We had been in France for three months and we were in Douarnenez for the summer when my father received a short letter. He showed it to me with a smile.

_Dear Sir_

_My mother informed me that you recently went back to France together with your daughter. She couldn't remember the name of your hometown but, if my memory serves me, Grace once told me it was Douarnenez_

_I've been living in London with my family for a long time now. My husband is a member of a company that produces typewriters and has been appointed to London._

_We are going to visit Paris in October and I would love to meet you and your daughter. Please let me know whether it will be possible_

_Best wishes to you and your daughter._

_Yours sincerely_

_Margaret Byrne née Murphy_

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Margaret was your poor mother's closest friend. She married shortly after we did and stayed in Boston until her husband was appointed to London, as you see"

My father was more than happy to oblige and in October we met with Margaret and her family. I previously mentioned that my maids were sent to me by a couple. Well, Margaret and Nathaniel were that couple.

Margaret was dark-haired and looked younger than her almost forty years. Upon seeing me, she couldn't hold back her tears and sat silently with her head in her hands.

I looked questioningly at my father.

"You look very much like your mother" he explained with a soft voice.

"Yes, you do" said Margaret feebly "I am so very happy to see both of you. It is good that you are so near now"

Of course she knew already, from her own mother, that my grandmother had died. Margaret had supported my mother's choice to marry my father and was aware of the consequences of this choice. She was happy to know that my grandmother had changed her mind in the end.

"A pity that you didn't have such a clarification with Mr. Fallon as well"

"What he said to me didn't leave much space for clarification" replied my father briskly "but one doesn't speak ill of the dead, so be it"

The Byrnes had three children. Their son, Edwin, was thirteen years old like me and their daughters, Mary Anne and Agatha, were respectively twelve and eight years old. On that first meeting I didn't have that much of an interaction with them. Later, Mary Anne would become a close friend of mine. As for Edwin... well, the story with Edwin is more complicated.

And now here we are. I always tell myself "well, let's write some notes" and then I write for an hour. That's all for today.


	9. Theft at the Charity - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock Holmes could need Gwenn's help once again

**Records of Dr. John Watson, 1887**

"Well, I suppose this is the lowest point" said Sherlock Holmes tossing a letter on the breakfast table.

It was a morning at the end of March and Spring had gloriously begun. It was unusually warm for that time of the year and we were enjoying our breakfast with open windows.

I reached over to the letter, which was written on a light blue paper in a neat handwriting.

_Dear Mr. Holmes_

_I wish to consult you about a rather delicate matter._

_This little mystery is probably not worthy of your talent. My friend Mrs Staunton, who was your client, praised your ability and courtesy so much that I immediately thought about you._

_I run a little charity in Fulham. The charity has a small safety deposit box that lies in our office. Last night someone broke in our rooms and took the deposit box. It has never contained more than twenty pounds but we emptied it just last week and there was nothing in it. Moreover Mrs Norris, our treasurer who has the box's key, had been robbed yesterday._

_We are a respectable charity and it would be very improper if our neighbors saw the police in our office. It would be a ruin to our good reputation._

_My hope is that you will perhaps agree to help us._

_Yours sincerely_

_Effie Oakes_

"Now I am looking after stolen deposit boxes. The criminals in this city have no imagination whatsoever" said Holmes bitterly.

"My dear friend, you should not judge a book by its cover. Maybe it will prove an interesting case" I reasoned. But Holmes was not convinced and went back to his coffee, still mumbling.

Two hours later, Mrs Hudson let Mrs Oakes in our small living room. She was a jolly looking middle aged woman. She was small in stature and had a pleasantly round face with lively green eyes.

"At first I didn't want to consult an important detective like you about such a trivial matter, Mr. Holmes" said Mrs Oakes with a strong Northumbrian accent "but it would be dreadful to have the police in our office..."

"Even a matter which seems trivial can turn out to be interesting, Mrs Oakes. Pray tell us what happened with the deposit box, stating everything as clearly as possible. Even the smallest detail can be of great importance" I told her while my friend scrutinized her, as usual.

"Well. I run a small charity at St. Theodore parish in Ellerby Street, Mr. Holmes. We are twenty-two young to middle-aged women and we meet every Saturday in the morning. Once in a month we pay a share of five shillings and put the money into the deposit box. Yesterday Mrs Norris, our treasurer, came to visit me and told me that she had been robbed on the previous evening. A young scoundrel had taken her purse in Kensington! It is unbelievable that such things happen even in the West End!" said Mrs Oakes, outraged, shaking her head.

"Pray continue, Mrs Oakes, you have been very clear so far" said Holmes.

"She was still very shocked, poor Mrs Norris. That rascal had shoved her roughly and she hadn't slept a wink thinking about it. Besides the deposit box's key had been in the purse as well and she didn't know how she was supposed to open it on the following meeting. Then it came to her mind that maybe I possessed a copy of the key myself. I have indeed one copy and I was just reassuring her on this point when my husband came running to us: he had just discovered that someone had broken in the charity!" the good woman was beyond outrage.

"I suppose your husband is the vicar"

Mrs Oakes looked at him perplexed: "He is indeed but how...?"

"Fairly obvious. You run a charity at a parish. Since your husband noticed that someone broke into the charity, you must live next to it. Therefore it is quite probable that your husband is the vicar"

Mrs Oakes laughed softly: "My word, Mr. Holmes, you make it look very simple!"

"Please do continue your statement, it is very interesting"

"Mrs Norris, my husband and I rushed to the office and I could see that someone had broken a window in order to come in. I looked around to see if anything was missing. Then I opened the small closet where we keep the deposit box and our records... and the box was missing! And this is all I know, Mr. Holmes. Yes, the box was empty and we can buy a new one with a new key but it is really unpleasant" concluded the good lady, looking scandalised again.

"You said that you noticed the broken window, Mrs Oakes. Did you notice the shards of glass on the floor?"

"Of course, there were lots of them. But I am sorry that they are not there anymore since my maid cleaned the office"

My friend looked disappointed upon hearing that his crime scene had been cleaned up but he just shrugged and went on with his questions.

"Who has the office's key apart from you?"

"Nobody. Well, of course my husband has his key but nobody from the charity"

"Does someone have the deposit box's key apart from you and Mrs Norris?"

"No, only the two of us"

"And how often do you use your own key?"

Mrs Oakes laughed. "The truth, Mr. Holmes? I have never used it! I keep a copy just for the emergencies but yesterday I needed an hour to find it!"

Holmes smiled understandingly.

"How often is the deposit box opened?" he asked next.

"Twice in a month. On the third Saturday of each month we pay our shares and put it in the box. On the following two Saturdays we plan the expenses and the beneficiaries. Then, on the second Saturday of the following month, we open the box again"

"That means that you are going to pay the shares on the following Saturday"

"Exactly" she nodded.

"Were the charity's ladies all aware that the box was empty?"

Mrs Oakes looked at him with wide eyes: "Are you implying that one of the ladies might have stolen it? I cannot imagine such a thing! Anyway yes, everybody knew that the box was empty because we had discussed the expenses on the previous week".

"What did Mrs Norris tell you about the thief. What did he look like?"

"Oh, she didn't notice that much, she was terrified. She said he was around ten or perhaps twelve years old and had dark hair... she didn't recognise him anyway."

"What sort of people does your charity help?"

"We provide food, clothes and some medications for families with children. They are all people who live in Fulham." she explained.

"And who brings these objects to the beneficiaries?"

"Usually each one of us or two of us together go to a different family. But it isn't always the same family, of course"

"Do you personally know the people you are assisting? Do you think that any of them would try to steal the box?"

Mrs Oakes pondered the question.

"I would like to say no, Mr. Holmes, and the people we assist are poor and not criminals. But there are bad seeds everywhere. Anyway I cannot think of a specific boy who could have done this"

"I am aware that my question may sound indelicate but it is very important to me to understand. As far as you know, does any lady of the charity have a relative or acquaintance who could be a thief or a criminal?"

Mrs Oakes thought briefly about it.

"We are neither rich nor poor, Mr. Holmes. The other ladies' husbands are clerks, craftsmen, tradesmen. I never heard anything about criminals in my friends' family. But people who have a criminal in their family may not be happy to talk about it. So maybe there is someone but I am not aware of it".

Sherlock Holmes stood up abruptly. Mrs Oakes did the same, looking somewhat taken aback by the sudden change in my friend's attitude.

"Your statement has been very interesting, Mrs Oakes, and I plan on visiting the vicarage in the afternoon if I may. I have to tell you, though, that I may not be able to solve the mystery. London has a web of young robbers and it is unlikely that I'll find your box again if they have stolen it".

OOO

"What do you think of our little mystery, Watson?" asked Holmes after Mrs Oakes was gone.

"Well,someone could have recognised Mrs Norris and could have stolen the box after robbing her. It is unlikely but, as you say, after you exclude the impossible that which remains has to be the truth" I offered.

"Yes, after you exclude the impossible. We have a group of ladies who were all well aware that the deposit box was empty and had no reason to steal it. Or we have a scoundrel who knew Mrs Norris and also knew -or supposed- that the charity has a deposit box and its location. Or we have something else entirely, provided that the person who stole the box and the person who stole the key are the same."

"How could they not be the same one?" I asked, uncertain.

But Holmes had leaned in his favourite armchair, had closed his eyes and wasn't listening to me anymore.

OOO

On that very afternoon we visited Mrs Oakes at the vicarage.

She led us to a small building with two floors next to the church. The first floor housed the charity's office, a small but cozy room. There was a large table, about twenty chairs, a fireplace and a small stove with a kettle. Merry floral curtains, which had been chosen by Mrs Oakes, decorated the windows. One of the windows had been broken but, as Mrs Oakes had told us, there weren't shards of glass anymore.

An arcade led into a much smaller room with just a closet. Mrs Oakes opened it to reveal several records and an empty shelf, where the deposit box had previously been.

As usual, Holmes searched the room and examined the fireplace, the closet, the window and all other objects in the room while Mrs Oakes looked at him, intrigued.

Eventually he stood.

"London is full of scoundrels, Mrs Oakes, and if the box has been stolen by one of them it will be difficult to find it again. But I will do my best to find out what happened. Don't be surprised if you do not hear from me for a week or more, it may take some time.

Holmes was silent during our ride back to Baker Street and I didn't interrupt his thoughts. While sitting in the cab, he wrote a small note that he handled to Mrs Hudson as soon as we arrived home.

When we were seated again in our living room, I asked: "So, you conclude that the same scoundrel stole the deposit box?"

"Not yet" he answered "but I am positive that our good old Wiggins will be able to shed light on this matter. The note I gave to Mrs Hudson is for him"

Wiggins was the head of the Irregulars, a group of street children who often helped Holmes in his investigations.

"And if it isn't the scoundrel?" I prompted. I could feel that my friend didn't want to share his impressions yet but I was too curious and couldn't avoid asking some questions.

Holmes grimaced.

"I would like to know what happens in this charity but I cannot do that myself. It is a pity that Mrs Oakes met Mrs Hudson this morning. She would have been perfect"

"Well, there is another lady in the neighborhood who has already helped you once" I suggested. I was actually surprised that Holmes hadn't thought about Miss Le Goff himself.

"You are aware, Watson, that Miss Le Goff is not an Anglican" he explained.

"I think she is able to pretend to be one, however" I retorted.

Holmes thought briefly, still unconvinced. Eventually he shrugged: "Well, I don't seem to have another option at the moment. Once again I have to remark, my dear Watson, that you seem to take a genuine interest in the aforementioned young lady"

"If I had the kind of interest you are suspecting, my friend, I would have already tried to court her. She is merely an intelligent and sensible woman" I replied with a smile.

I really didn't comprehend his reluctance to ask for her help in this case or in the Felton School's one. If I hadn't known him as I did, I would have almost thought that he was trying to avoid her.


	10. Theft at the Charity - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the mystery is finally solved

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, November 7th, 1941**

Bad news in these last few days. A destroyer, the USS Reuben James, has been sunk by the Germans near Iceland. 100 people have died. I would be surprised if we didn't join the war by the end of the year.

Well, let's stop thinking about such things for today and let's tell the rest of the story from my point of view.

OOO

On March 29, 1887, Sherlock Holmes sent me a short note asking to meet me. Half an hour later they were sitting in my living room.

"I hope we are not intruding" said Sherlock gesturing to the music sheets and the violin on the table.

"Never mind, I was just practicing. Please take a seat, gentlemen. Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you, we have just had tea at home. I requested to see you because I am dealing with a little mystery where your assistance would be much appreciated"

"I am all ears" I said, leaning back on the sofa.

In a few concise sentences, he informed me about their meeting with Mrs Oakes and their visit at the charity. I listened with great concentration.

Not for the first time, Mr. Holmes puzzled me. Although that deposit box was certainly important to Mrs Oakes and to her friends, I found it surprising that a detective who was slowly becoming famous would invest his time on such a case.

"I assume you would like me to go undercover in the charity" I said eventually.

"I would be very obliged for that. I am however aware that it would require some time and caution and that you may not be willing to do it"

"A meeting on Saturday morning doesn't look very demanding. I will gladly help you. But what would you like me to do exactly?"

"I would like to know if any of the ladies behave suspiciously and how they will react to the box's disappearance. In short, anything that you will be able to notice. You would be, so to say, my eyes and my ears"

"Very well. I will visit Mrs, Oakes in a couple of days"

"Thank you very much for your help" he said bowing slightly "Please notice that Mrs Oakes is probably a quite simple person. I don't expect her friends of the charity to be as cultivated as you are" I nodded in understanding.

"I have another question if I may?"

"Please"

"May I ask you why you accepted the case? Do you have an interest in it or did you accept out of... sense of duty?"

He seemed surprised by the question and took a moment to answer.

"At first I took the case because I could not refuse my help to a lady asking for it. But now that I am involved, I would like to know who took that box and why. Even the disappearance of an apple can be of interest for me if the reason for its disappearance is not clear"

"That was remarkably clear, thank you" I replied with a smile.

He smiled slightly as well.

OOO

Two days later I went to St. Theodore's parish and requested to see Mrs. Oakes. Presuming that my French surname would have drawn attention, I introduced myself with my grandmother's name, Frances Bell.

A maid led me to a living room where a cheerful lady with grey hair soon joined me.

"Good morning, Miss Bell. I hear that you wanted to see me. How can I assist you?"

"I've just moved to Fulham and I am looking for a new parish" I explained.

"Where have you moved from? You sound American" she asked curiously.

"In a way I am. I was born in England but I grew up in Boston. My father worked there," I explained. It seemed a reasonable explanation of why a woman with an American accent would look for an Anglican parish.

"Oh, so you have come back to your homeland?" she said with a smile.

Yes. Both my parents died years ago. I don't have any more relatives in the United States so I moved back here" I added. Mrs. Oakes would have wondered why I wasn't living with my parents otherwise.

"I am very sorry for that. I hope that you have some relatives left in England"

"Unfortunately I don't. But I was born here and I wanted to come back anyway"

"I can understand it. You will be very welcome in our parish. Would you be interested in joining our charity?"

That was even better than expected. I had spent a lot of time trying to decide how to approach that subject. And now Mrs. Oakes was offering to initiate me into the charity herself!

"That would be great! When do you meet?"

"Every Saturday morning in a small office next to the church. I am glad that you are joining us. Unfortunately we are having a hard time at the moment" she added with a saddened expression.

"Really? May I ask why is that?"

"Well, some days ago our treasurer was robbed and on the following night our safety deposit box disappeared... thankfully it was empty. It is very unpleasant and I even asked a detective to help us find the thief but he says that it will be difficult..." she shook her head, looking defeated.

"Outrageous! I cannot imagine how someone would want to steal from a charity. Good that it was empty, indeed" I replied.

Mrs Oakes smiled: "But let's not think about it anymore, we cannot help it now. I am very glad that a new young lady is joining us"

"I must warn you, however. It is possible that I won't stay long. I am looking for a place as a governess" I explained.

"In that case I hope that you will find a family in the neighborhood!" she said cheerfully.

OOO

**Eastbourne, November 25, 1941**

The United Stated just granted lend-lease to free France. Thank God.

OOO

On the following Saturday, shortly before 10 a.m., I was standing before the charity's door. A moment later Mrs Oakes arrived and let me in.

"You are the first one to arrive. Please to take a seat"

The office was small and simply furnished but it had been decorated with flowers, flowery curtains and small paintings in order to look comfortable. I looked around to find the closet Mr. Holmes had told me about, then I remembered that it was in the smaller room behind the arcade.

I sat at the table and soon other women started arriving. A few were in their forties of fifties like Mrs. Oakes but for the most part they were in their thirties. Only a couple of them looked younger than me.

Once we were there, Mrs. Oakes took the floor.

"Good morning and welcome to this new meeting! First I would like to introduce a new friend of ours, Miss Bell" she gestured towards me "Miss Bell has just come back to her homeland after living for many years in the United States. She is a very nice young lady and I believe that she will help us a great deal!" she said with a smile.

"I'm glad" a dark-haired, middle aged woman sitting beside me spoke up. "We haven't had a new entry in quite a time! I am Mrs. Hannah Thompson, by the way."

I smiled at her and went back to what Mrs. Oakes was saying.

"I assume that you all know about the criminal event that has taken place here" she said sternly. "I consulted a private detective to help us find the box. He has however warned me that it will be difficult. I wish to give him some time to investigate before we invest money on a new deposit box. For the moment we are keeping the money in a regular box and I will bring it home with me"

The other ladies approved of this decision and we proceeded to discuss how to use the money: how much corn, milk, potatoes, apples we could buy and so on.

At one point a lady with blonde hair in her thirties disappeared behind the arcade and came back with a small purse. She had to be Mrs. Norris, the treasurer.

Every lady gave five shillings. Mrs Norris put the money in the purse and disappeared again behind the arcade before sitting again with us.

"I thought we were going to put the money in a box" I whispered to Mrs Thompson.

"I suppose the box is in the closet behind the arcade" she shrugged "Mrs Norris always collects the money in that small purse of hers and puts it in the deposit box afterwards"

I nodded in understanding. There was absolutely nothing unusual in the women's behaviour, nothing that could catch my attention. They all looked serious and motivated as they discussed which families they were going to help and how much cheese we needed to buy.

But I felt that something was wrong.

OOO

When the meeting was over I decided to walk to Baker Street instead of taking a cab, even if I had to walk five miles. I needed to think.

Why would someone steal an empty deposit box? Well, because he doesn't know that it was empty. But all the ladies at the charity knew that it was empty and had no reason to steal it. What about the robber, then? Well, the robber had recognized Mrs. Norris in Kensington. He had robbed her. He knew that there was a deposit box in the charity and had figured out that one of Mrs. Norris' keys opened it and had stolen the box. Improbable for someone to casually break into the charity just after Mrs. Norris was robbed? Possible but unsatisfactory.

No matter how I looked at it, it made no sense.

And then, suddenly, I had a revelation. What if I was proceeding from a false assumption? What if the box wasn't empty in the first place?

stopped in my tracks so abruptly that a man walking by shot me a questioning look.

Mrs Thompson had told me that the deposit box stayed in the closet. Only one person could know for sure whether the box was empty or not and that person was Mrs. Norris. The other women at the charity never saw the box open, including Mrs Oakes.

When I finally arrived home it was past midday. I supposed that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were eating lunch and I waited an hour before showing up.

Mr. Holmes stood to greet me with a single swift movement. His eyes were sparkling and I had the impression that he was expecting good news anytime.

The two gentlemen sat in front of me, Dr. Watson with his usual notebook and pencil and Sherlock Holmes with closed eyes and interlocked fingers.

He listened to my statement without moving or asking any questions. When I reached the part where Mrs. Norris had collected the money, he opened his eyes and swiftly leaned forward. He opened his mouth to ask something but I anticipated the question.

"Yes, Mrs Norris always collects the shares like that. And no, the other ladies of the charity never look into the box"

A small smile formed on Sherlock's lips.

"And I suppose you have an explanation for this?"

He wasn't being sarcastic but rather appreciative. I could tell that we had both thought the same.

"Mrs. Norris possibly hid something in the box. It was a safe place since nobody looked into it ever. Then she was effectively robbed. Since she didn't want Mrs. Oakes to open the box with her own key, she stole the box herself"

"Excellent!" he exclaimed.

"And what do you think she hid there?" asked Dr. Watson turning to him.

"Well, we have to make assumptions. But since she decided to hide something in a box outside of her house I suspect that she has or had an affair"

I silently agreed with him.

"The question is what happened to the box. She doesn't have the key anymore" I said.

On that very moment, I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice protesting loudly downstairs and someone climbed the stairs in a hurry. A moment later the door opened and a decidedly sketchy looking young boy entered.

"I've got it, Mr. Holmes, sir!" he said excitedly. Upon noticing my presence, he bowed deeply and said "Good day, Ma'am"

"Well done, Wiggins. Will you?" said Sherlock reaching out.

Wiggins took a small object I couldn't see from his pocket and presented it to us with a solemn gesture. It was a small key.

I gasped and looked at Sherlock Holmes, who was handing a shilling to the boy with a very smug expression.

"You were lucky, sir, he was going to throw it away" the boy continued with a giggle.

"So the thief didn't know who the lady was"

"Not at all! He found a few coins and kept the keys"

"And he didn't steal a deposit box"

"Of course not. Snatching is one thing and burglary is another" he explained, making me raise my eyebrows at his questionable ethics. The boy saluted and after a second he was gone as swiftly as he had arrived.

"Now we have the key!" said Sherlock Holmes standing "Thank you, Miss Le Goff, you have been of great assistance to us. And I owe you five shillings for your expenses". He handed a coin to me but I refused firmly: "Oh, please, Mr. Holmes. My money will go to a charity after all"

OOO

On the following day I went to church at St. Theodore parish. Of course Mrs. Oakes was expecting to see me there and my absence would have been suspicious.

At the end of the function she approached me with a broad smile: "Great news, Miss Bell! Yesterday evening that detective brought the deposit box back!"

"Oh, that's wonderful news! Where did he find it?"

"Abandoned in Bishop's Park. Open and with the key still in place. Probably the thief opened it and threw it in the Park upon noticing that it was empty!"

"I am glad that this story is over!" I said cheerfully.

Upon leaving the church, I spotted Mrs Norris together with a man who had to be her husband. She looked as quiet as she had been the day before. I didn't want to catch her attention and walked away.

On that very afternoon I received a note from Mr. Holmes inviting me over for tea.

"Mrs Oakes brought us a plate full of Northumbrian sweets in order to thank us. It is only fair that you eat them as well" said Sherlock Holmes gesturing to a plate of scones.

"So, someone dropped the box in Bishops' Park, right? Mrs. Oakes told me about it after the function"

The detective looked surprised: "You went to the function?"

"Of course I did, otherwise it would have been obvious that I was working with you from the beginning!"

Sherlock Holmes nodded appreciatively.

"Mrs. Norris is an intelligent woman. When she saw the key, she understood that we knew the truth and didn't play any games"

"On the contrary she was thankful" added Dr. Watson "She didn't know how to pick the lock and she didn't dare to throw the box away with its content"

"So she destroyed the content and then gave everything to me. I, in turn, brought it back to Mrs. Oakes"

"But where did she keep the box in the meantime?" I asked.

"Buried in her garden" answered Sherlock with a shrug. "And now let's enjoy Mrs. Oakes' reward" he continued, handling me the plate of scones "Northumbrian singing Hinnies, Miss Le Goff, and Mrs. Oakes is a very good cook".


	11. Becoming a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn and her father move to London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: the magazine "The contemporary" doesn't exist as far as I know.

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, December 8th, 1941**

I am in no mood for writing right now.

Yesterday the Japanese launched an air strike on our naval base of Pearl Harbour. They didn't even declare war until after the attack, unbelievable.

There are casualties, we still don't know how many.

There is currently a Congress in session. I am curious to know how President Roosevelt will put it but it is obvious that we will declare war. Britain has done so already.

I would like to be able to write. I know it would bring some solace but today I simply cannot.

OOO

**Eastbourne, December 23rd, 1941**

It will be a sad Christmas for so many of us.

There were thousands casualties in Pearl Harbour, including firefighters who had nothing to do with the war. Leningrad is still besieged. How long?

I'm glad that I will have my daughter at home for Christmas.

And now let's go on with writing. I need to think about something else.

OOO

"Gwenn, there is a favour I would like to ask of you" said my cousin Jean-Baptiste one day in late 1878.

"Go ahead"

"Could you please give me some English lessons? I could use some English in the shop because there are many British and American clients"

I was slightly taken aback by this request.

"I can gladly do that but I don't know if I am good enough" I replied.

"But I need nothing special. I only need to talk about fabric, prices, little things like that"

On the very same day I began teaching English to Jean-Baptiste. Céline, living in the same house, decided to attend as well. At first I was wary but soon I felt at ease and started actually enjoying it. In a few months my cousin was able to exchange some sentences with his clients, even though the British customers complained about his American accent.

"Teaching was fun, I am sorry that it is over" I told my father some time later, during a walk in the Jardins de Luxembourg.

"Well, I suppose there are other potential pupils in Paris" he replied with a smile "A friend of Julienne is looking for a violin teacher for her little son and Julienne asked me. I don't have time to do it but you could"

My father didn't oppose my desire to teach. On the contrary, although he was a generally a tolerant person he found laziness an unforgivable flaw. He often repeated that idleness weakened intellect and morals and that one needed to have a purpose in life. That is the reason why to this day I cannot stay still, by the way.

I applied for those violin lessons and I found out that I liked teaching violin even more than teaching English. It was rewarding to see my young pupils, who weren't even able to hold a violin before, make the first simple melodies out of their instrument. Some of them learned violin because they had to, without particular passion. Some of them, on the opposite side, were quite musical. I loved their joy as they started to master some music.

I gave my last violin lessons when my grandsons were children, and always with greatest pleasure.

OOO

During my years in Paris I made another startling discovery: men existed.

Of course I knew that men existed even before but that had never bothered me. Suddenly, I started noticing that some boys were attractive and others were less attractive, that some of them were fascinating and others less fascinating. I didn't think about having suitors or something like that yet. At the same time I wasn't a child anymore. I wanted my hair to be longer and to look good. I liked to wear colours that suited me.

One evening, my great-aunt Annig approached the subject with my father.

"Why aren't you attending a ball?" she asked.

He looked up from his plate with some surprise.

"You know that I dislike that kind of social meetings" he explained.

My aunt rolled her eyes. "Gael, your daughter is _seventeen_. How is she supposed to find a husband someday if you don't attend some society?"

"First of all she doesn't have to marry _now_. Besides she isn't locked up at home. We take walks, go to the theatre, visit museums, and have guests at home"

"Yes, and you expect a young man to approach her while you are standing at her side? Glaring like you do anytime somebody looks at her? Definitely going to happen!" she said with a sarcastic tone.

My father was at a loss for words but she wasn't done yet.

"And pray tell us, where did you meet your late wife?"

"At a ball I didn't even want to attend" said my father, looking defeated. My great-aunt looked triumphant.

My father looked at Fabrice and shook his head knowingly.

"Being married taught me one thing: it is pointless to argue with a women once they have decided. You are still young, Gwenn, but one day one man will say the exact same thing about you"

He was definitely right.

OOO

In the following months I took dancing lessons and attended some balls. I liked dancing as much as I liked music but I also felt uneasy.

People attended balls to have fun, yes, but also to find a match. They wore their most elegant dresses and tried to show their best side only. The young men who asked to dance with me wanted to impress me, to let me think that they shared my interests and my views. The whole situation lacked spontaneity and I doubted that I was going to find a future husband there.

"You don't have to. You can simply dance" my father commented when I shared my point of view with him. I took his advice and I kept attending balls until we left for London some years later. Even if I started wishing to fall in love, however, it never happened there or elsewhere. I dismissed that idea, thinking that I would've fallen in love sooner or later.

OOO

During the eight years we spent in Paris, my father's essays were translated into English and published in Britain. In 1880, he was offered a place as chairman for a new British magazine, the Contemporary. As its very name tells, the Contemporary focused on the newest cultural themes, scientific discoveries, art works and so on. Ethnology and anthropology were regularly discussed.

My father thought about this offer for several months and discussed it with me. He was going to turn sixty on the following spring. He didn't want to work full time anymore but he still needed something to do. Eventually he decided to accept. London was not far away from Paris and we could spend our vacations with Fabrice's family or in Douarnenez as usual. Besides we already knew somebody in London since Margaret and her family were living there.

Fabrice wasn't surprised when my father informed him. On the contrary, he was surprised that it hadn't happened before, that my father had stayed so long in Paris without a change.

After our usual summer vacation in Brittany we moved to London. My father took an apartment in Baker Street because his magazine's office was in Crawford Street and he could walk there.

My first impression of London in September 1880 was ambivalent. The city was beautiful, full of museums, concert houses, parks.

The people, however, were very different from what I was used to. Nobility was completely separated from the other people and the separation between different social classes was clear. In the Western part of the United States where I grew up there was nothing of the sort. Yes, there were rich people and poor people but the rich ones often were farmers and miners who had made money. The "upper class" consisted in a few doctors, teachers, lawyers and of course nobility didn't even exist. My father often was the only available doctor and he couldn't choose his own clients. There weren't many children and I played with other girls regardless of who their parents were.

In Boston and Paris it was different but still, the US and France were a Republic. I couldn't understand why nobility was at a superior level than me. I couldn't understand why aristocrats had to look down on other people since their only special merit was that they were born into a certain lineage. And after growing up in a country that was about 100 years old, I couldn't understand the concept of "old families". It was a huge cultural shock and on some aspects it still is: even if I have been living in Britain for decades now, I consider myself American and French but not British.

But London was too beautiful and interesting to be resisted and I spent my first weeks exploring it with my father and with Margaret's family.

OOO

The Byrnes were overjoyed when we moved to London. She and her family lived in Kensington, not far away from us, and we started meeting regularly. Benedict and Margaret, who had known my mother, developed a deep affection for me. Benedict and my father had great respect for each other since their youth and they formed a close friendship.

Benedict was one of the two or three persons outside family that my father addressed with his given name. I, on the other hand, became very close with the three Byrne children, especially with Mary Anne, who was a year younger than me.

Mary Anne was not very talkative and it was hard to get to know her. She had however a quick wit and we shared a love for music and long walks. We didn't need much time to get along very well and to become friends.

Edwin had become an attractive young man and had inherited his father's blond hair. He was the perfect companion for the long walks I took with his two sisters: he was funny, cheerful and really enjoyed everything. When we proposed a walk in the park, a visit to some church or monument and even if we needed to shop, he was always eager to accompany us and had fun. He was his little sister Agatha's hero.

On the few occasions when we found ourselves alone together he was somewhat different. He was always cheerful and funny but more serious and calm. We rarely spent more than a couple of days without talking to each other.

"Gwenn, there is something that I really have to ask you" said my father one evening, sitting beside me on the sofa. It was May and we were going to travel back to France in a week.

"Yes?"

"Do you like Edwin?" he looked quite serious. The meaning of his question was quite clear.

The question startled me. I had never thought about it. I had never imagined Edwin as a possible suitor.

"Not in the sense that you probably mean" I answered after a moment "He is Mary Anne's brother and a nice person but that is all"

"I am under the impression that he, however, likes you very much" he went on in a cautious voice.

"Really? But he's said nothing to me"

My father smiled: "Believe me, Gwenn. I can tell whether a young man is in love with my daughter or not. At first I didn't want to approach this subject. I was almost sure, however, that you didn't reciprocate. You should..." he searched for the right words "You see, a young person who is in love can see encouragement where there is none. He may think that you have noticed his attentions and he may assume that you are accepting them. If you are not in love, you should prevent him from becoming even more involved.

The relationship between the Byrnes and us could become quite awkward if he proposed"

I spent sleepless hours thinking about Edwin that night. Yes, he was a good person with many qualities, it was nice to spend time with him, I knew his family. But I couldn't bring myself to feel something more for him. I didn't know how to handle the situation: since our families met very often, it was difficult to talk to him directly. After all he hadn't proposed or declared his feelings. Eventually I decided to talk to Mary Anne.

"Do you think that your brother likes me?" I asked her on the following day.

"Yes" she replied earnestly "but I also think that you don't"

My expression was quite meaningful and she sighed.

"I am sorry" I said.

"You shouldn't be. Yes, it would have been great, my parents and I would have been overjoyed to have you in our family. But you cannot force yourself to fall in love"

We talked about it for quite a while and we eventually agreed that Mary Anne would talk to him.

On the day before our departure for France we visited the Byrnes to say goodbye. Edwin was there and although he was polite as usual he was also very serious and couldn't hold my gaze.

Upon returning back from Brittany in September, we learned that Edwin had left to spend some months in the United States. Officially, the reason was that he wanted to visit his grandparents and his other living relatives but Mary Anne soon admitted to me that the reason was another. She thought it was a good idea for him to travel for some time since our families met so often.

During the following weeks the visits to the Byrnes were awkward for me. They were happy to see me again and they never mentioned that Edwin's absence was due to me, although they certainly knew that. In a short time, however, my unease faded and I felt part of their family just like before.

Edwin came back after more than a year, in October 1882.

When we met he smiled openly and friendly and I understood that his feelings for me were fading. Some years later he married and went back to the United States with his wife.

He came back to London to his parents every now and then but his absence never really upset me

From that moment on I became more aware of men's attentions towards me. I expected to fall in love as well sooner or later but months and years went on and it didn't happen.

Until...

Well, I've written more than enough for today. Let's do some Christmas decoration.


	12. "Our days were a joy and our paths through flowers"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn deals with a tragic event

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: the title is inspired to a poem by Thomas Hardy and an homonymous painting by David Inshaw

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, March 18, 1942**

The war is catastrophic. I had hoped that the US contribution would help but it is probably too early to tell yet. A month ago general MacArthur had to evacuate the Philippines and the Japanese are dominating everywhere in the Far East.

Singapore surrendered to them a few days ago and this was very hard for the British.

OOO

The events of September 1883 are still painful to me, even after almost sixty years.

At the beginning of our usual summer vacations, after visiting Fabrice's family in Paris, my father and I had taken a trip to Florence.

Since our return to Europe in 1872 we had taken several trips through the continent but it was the first time I went to Italy. We had a wonderful time visiting the old city, the beautiful churches and palaces and admiring the great art works. I could quite understand the words of the French writer Stendhal, who wrote about nearly fainting with ecstasy upon visiting Florence.

One day we went out to visit Boboli Gardens. It's a park with a collection of wonderful statues located on a hill. It was a very warm afternoon and we tried our best to avoid the striking sun.

I walked lost in my thought and I suddenly noticed that my father wasn't by my side anymore.

I turned around and saw him standing, with a bewildered expression on his face.

He slowly lifted his hand up to his chest and looked at me.

"What is wrong, _papa_?" I asked.

He smiled uneasily: "I should rest for a moment. It is very warm and I tend to forget that I am more than sixty years old now"

There were no benches there and he leaned on a tree, breathing slowly and deeply.

My father was in good health for his age. He never indulged too much in food and wine, exercised regularly and his curly hairs were for the most part still dark. He looked definitely younger than he was. At first I was quite worried but in a few minutes he recovered and we resumed our walk, although with a slower pace.

After visiting Florence we went back to Douarnenez. During that vacation my father engaged in his usual summer activities: swimming, walking, fishing and reading.

At the end of August, however, I noticed that his walks and swimming session became shorter with every day. Moreover he was uncharacteristically tired. At first I thought that a sixty-two years old man was allowed to be tired after a physical effort and I said nothing.

One evening we were having dinner in the small garden beside our cottage. My father was strangely silent and serious-looking and I decided to speak up.

"I think there is something that you are not telling me, _papa_ "

He looked at me for a long moment, then stood and went to sit beside me.

"I am afraid that my heart isn't working at full capacity anymore" he begun "It takes a very light effort for my chest to start aching"

He regarded me and couldn't bring himself to say more but I supposed that I knew where this was going.

My father took my hand. "If it progresses at this pace I don't have much time left" he said eventually.

I looked at him, terrified. I knew that he wasn't young anymore but the idea that he could die soon had never crossed my mind.

"I am sorry because you are still so young and I won't be there"

I couldn't say a word.

"Let's go inside, shall we?" he said standing and offering his arm to me.

We sat together on the sofa.

"It is somewhat funny. I wanted to approach this subject with you tonight and you did it yourself. We are indeed father and daughter..." he mused.

"I know that this must be hard for you, Gwenn, but I don't want to deceive you. I want you to be as prepared as possible for it. I don't know when it will happen but it will be soon"

I was fighting hard not to cry but some tears escaped from my eyes. He wiped them away with a caress.

"There are some things I would like to tell you in advance. There may not be time enough later"

I tried my best to focus on what he was saying.

"I know that our departure is scheduled in a week but I would like to stay here. And also to be buried here" I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"I will write a will but it is a simple formality since you are my only heiress. Should you decide to sell this house someday, please remember to leave something to the maid"

"I don't want to sell it" I whispered.

"All the better. I will leave you with no financial problems whatsoever and you are anyway able to look after yourself. Should you ever marry, choose wisely. I think I provided a good example of how a gentleman should treat you"

"You did" I answered with a quivering voice.

"Your mother's diaries are in my secretaire. There is the one your grandmother gave to me on her deathbed and there are the later ones that I kept. Your mother once told me to let you read them one day, so that you could know her somehow. I've read them and you can read them as well."

I nodded again.

"There is one last thing and it is complicated" he said eventually "Your mother is still in Madison. I wanted to bring her back and to have her buried in my family grave but immediately after your grandmother's death it was difficult. Please try to bring her here. You don't have to do it this year or next year, just when you feel like doing it"

"I promise" I said.

We were both silent for a long moment.

"Is there something else that you wish me to do?" I asked.

"When it worsens, write to Fabrice and ask him to come over"

OOO

During the following weeks I always accompanied my father when he went out.

As he has predicted, his chest pains were progressing rapidly. He wasn't able to walk more than ten minutes without triggering the pains.

A couple of weeks later, on September 13th, the situation suddenly worsened.

I had just stood and I was walking to the kitchen when I heard my father calling me from his bedroom.

I opened the door and saw him lying in bed, still wearing his nightgown. My father was an early riser and I understood immediately that something was wrong.

He motioned for me to come nearer and made me sit on the bed. He was very pale.

"Gwenn, dearest, I would like you to send a telegram to Fabrice" he said taking my hand.

I started weeping silently.

"Now, now" he comforted me "that's not so bad. I am in my sixties, I've had a great life, mostly thanks your mother and you"

I forced myself to stop crying and did what he had requested, sending a maid to the post office in town.

From that moment on I sat on my father's bed and never left his side for more than a couple minutes.

His chest pain was now continuous and he lay in bed all day, occasionally falling asleep for a short time.

At about nine in the evening someone knocked and soon the maid introduced Fabrice and Céline into the bedroom.

By that time my father had turned even paler and could barely speak.

"We took the first train..." explained Fabrice looking worriedly at him.

I thought that they probably wanted to speak privately and I left them alone.

Once I found myself sitting in the living room with Céline, I couldn't hold the tears anymore. Everything was happening so quicky. Only a few weeks to get accustomed to my father's death, to his absence. Céline stayed silent, listened to me and let me cry.

When Fabrice came back into the living room, I washed my face and went back to my father's bedroom. I ignored his protests and Fabrice's offer to stay with him during the night and sat on an armchair with a light blanket. I wasn't going to let my father die alone.

My father fell asleep almost immediately. I stayed awake for a long time, listening to his even breathing.

My sleep was very troubled on that night and I woke up several times. It was almost unbearable to sit there, awake and still, and I wanted to stand up but I didn't want to wake up my father and stayed there.

Eventually I woke up once again, an icy sensation in my stomach.

I noticed that the sun had already begun to rise. I stood up silently to look at the time on my father's watch resting on his night table when I suddenly realised it.

He wasn't breathing anymore.

I kneeled beside him. He seemed still asleep and his hand was still warm. I leaned my head on the blanket and sobbed until I had no more tears.

I took some other moments to collect myself, then I stood up and went to the living room.

Fabrice and Céline were already there, silently drinking coffee. Upon seeing the look on my face, Fabrice stood and went to my father's bedroom while Céline simply hugged me.

The following days were like hell. On one side I wanted time to think it over, on the other I kept myself occupied with the funeral's organisation in order to not think it over. A

s my father had wished, the funeral was held in Douarnenez and he was buried in the local cemetery together with his parents. In addition to family, my father's closest friends as well as the Byrnes arrived to attend.

After the funeral I stayed at Fabrice's home for some days. I didn't feel like being alone yet. Fabrice told me that his house was always open for me and that I could stay permanently if I wanted. Although I appreciated this offer, I declined: I was too used to living alone with my father and a large family was not for me.

I had to become used to my father's absence but I didn't feel like going back to our apartment in London yet. So I decided to take a trip.

At first I thought about going back to the States because of my mother's body but I soon rejected this idea. It would have been too much at the time.

Eventually I decided to visit Vienna.

"Do you really want to leave so soon?" asked Fabrice worriedly.

"I must try to be without my father" I answered.

"Our doors are always open for you" he said.

OOO

**Eastbourne, April 8, 1942**

Now the Japanese are in Ceylon as well! The war is even worse than before! Can it get even worse?

OOO

Before leaving for Vienna I decided to take my mother's diary with me. I took the first one, the one my grandmother had given my father on her deathbed.

For many hours I sat on the train, holding the diary in my hands but lacking the strength to open it.

My thoughts always went to my father and I felt impossibly lonely.

The train was already crossing Germany (Germany! It seems incredible now) when I finally opened it.

Between the cover and the first page I found a note:

_Madison, April 18, 1858_

_Dear parents_

_I would like you to have and to read this diary._

_I hope that you will see how wrongly and cruelly you have treated the man I am happy to call my husband._

_Yours_

_Grace_

My mother had initially been a quiet, obedient and probably shy person. She wrote about her piano and about her innocent chats with friends and acquaintances. Her handwriting was orderly and clear.

Turning a page, I found something different.

She had written a phrase so hurriedly that I had trouble deciphering it. Eventually I understood:

_Boston, December 23, 1855_

_From now on, my life will never be the same. Tonight I met the man I want to marry._

She wrote that she had just met my father at a Christmas ball by some family friends.

She had been playing piano and he had listened to her attentively, then he had invited her to dance. My mother became easily tired because of her heart and between one dance and the following one they had chatted. They spent the whole evening together, chatting and dancing.

Soon after Christmas, my father began to court her.

My grandparents didn't object at first, but soon they found out things about my father that they didn't like.

Again I had trouble deciphering my mother's handwriting, which became very untidy when she was upset or emotional.

The problem was that my grandfather didn't approve of my father's unconventional ideas.

My father's political opinions about Republics and his support of a revolution were not a problem; my grandfather was Irish and he understood.

He was bothered by my father's attitude towards religion. My father was not an atheist but he shared the opinion of many educated Frenchmen of his age about the church and the Catholic hierarchy. As a matter of fact, he didn't show up very often at church.

Another topic of dissension were the peculiar books my father used to read.

He once scandalised my grandparents by praising Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ , freshly published and very controversial. He liked books which were considered weird at the time, like Thoreau's _Walden_ (by the way, I have inherited one of the first thousand copies thereof from my father).

My grandparents concluded that my father was morally deviated.

My grandfather confronted him and openly accused him of being a libertine and added that French people had a _reputation_ for it. My father replied that the French also had a reputation for getting easily offended and the latter applied to him more than the former.

My mother defended my father passionately, arguing with her parents, whom she had never disobeyed prior to that argument.

When she announced that she had accepted his proposal, my grandfather slapped her and declared that she would marry without a dowry and she would be banished from his house after the marriage.

My father wasn't happy when he found out about the slapping.

_"Do you think I wanted to marry your daughter because of the dowry! Sir, you are offending me, and not for the first time. And I accept no reproach from a man that lays his finger on a lady. Slap her again and I will put you off that! Slap me if you dare - and face the consequence!"_

These were the last words my father and my grandfather exchanged. Even the letters my father sent to my grandparents after my mother's death were always addressed to my grandmother.

Shortly after the marriage, they moved to Madison.

My mother encouraged my father to move further West but he was too worried for her poor health and didn't dare.

The first diary ended soon after their arrival in Madison.

OOO

Vienna's beauty was impressive even for someone who had lived in Paris and London.

Everything was different from now back then. The Austro-Hungarian Empire still existed, even if it clearly was in a declining phase.

The Crown Prince Rudolph, who later committed suicide, was still alive.

I kept thinking about the diary while visiting Vienna. I have been in Vienna several times since then but every time I am there I think about that first visit and about my mother.

I was impressed by the strength of her feelings, by how love could transform an obedient person. I had never felt like such passion.

Walking by the Hofburg, I made a decision: I would marry only if I had felt something like that for a man. Only if I had felt something like what my mother had felt for my father.

And for several years I thought that it was not going to happen.


	13. "Love is here to stay"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn believes that she has a crush but soon realizes that it is much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes:   
> -Conan Doyle's tale "five orange pips" is mentioned in this chapter. I did some research and I found nothing about the Ku Klux Klan actually using orange pips. In general, his definition of the Ku Klux Klan doesn't look very accurate. For the sake of the story I'm pretending that he was correct   
> -"Love is here to stay" is a song by George Gershwin

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, April 26, 1942**

This war is going to be longer than the last one. Nothing happens, simple as that. I had hoped that the American support would improve the situation but it isn't happening. When I think that I could die without seeing the end of this...!

In the last weeks, I did whatever I could to ease the tension. I wrote to my family members or at least the ones I can write to at the moment. I spent a couple of days with my daughter but then I thought about the war even more, since my two nephews are fighting. I went to the movies to watch Mr. Welles' _Citizen Kane_. I had to drag Sherlock with me, as usual, and eventually he praised the movie even more than I did - again, as usual.

It's always like that with him. For years, he refused to read Agatha Christie's detective books until I finally convinced him. Then in 1936 he sent a letter with compliments to her after reading Mesopotamia.

You always have to _talk him_ into things - and that goes not only for books and movies.

OOO

After our little mystery at the charity I didn't see Sherlock Holmes for several months.

In April 1887, he left for France on a case and had not come back yet when I left for my usual summer vacation.

Since our last meeting, I had been thinking about him even more often than before. During the charity mystery I had the impression that his attitude towards me was changing and that maybe he was beginning to trust me.

Sometimes I found myself thinking about him for no reason. He simply popped up in my head and didn't go away.

On a rainy day in September 1887 he sent me a note requesting to see me. Shortly after he was sitting in my living room.

He was unusually alone. His swift movements and shining eyes spread energy and I knew instantly that he was on an interesting case.

"I took the liberty of visiting you because at the moment I could use an American's help" he said after we had exchanged the usual pleasantries.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"Is the expression _'five orange pips_ ' of some significance in the United States, particularly a threatening one?" he questioned.

I thought about it for a moment. "The orange pips can have a significance but they don't have to be five" I said slowly.

He looked at me expectantly.

"Orange pips can be used as a threatening message by the so-called Ku Klux Klan"

"Ku Klux Klan?" repeated Sherlock Holmes taking an envelope from his pocket. It contained five orange pips and a note with the abbreviation KKK.

"Yes, that is its abbreviation" I said.

"What is the Ku Klux Klan?" he asked.

"Wait a moment, please. My father wrote an essay about it. I think he explains it better than I could" I searched in the shelves where my father's articles were and I soon found what I was looking for. Five years before, my father had written an essay titled _"The war after the war_ ". Its first part concerned the Ku Klux Klan.

I handled the magazine to Sherlock, who read it attentively.

"Ah, yes. Your father mentioned that this KKK sometimes used orange seeds as messages"

"What are you investigating, if I may ask?" I questioned.

Sherlock briefly informed be about the story that would later be published with the title 'five orange pips'. Dr. Watson didn't want to make the public aware of my existence, therefore in his record Sherlock found out about KKK from an encyclopedia.

"You have been very helpful, Miss Le Goff. I notice that this essay is titled 'the war after the war - part one'. Does the second part concern the KKK as well?"

"No, the second part is about Jesse James" I explained.

"Ah, the outlaw. I already know the story" he replied with a smile.

"Do you wish to take the essay with you?" I asked.

"That won't be necessary, thank you. I already found the information I was looking for"

I felt funny after this unexpected encounter. I had always considered him to be handsome and fascinating. But now there was something new.

My heart was racing and I kept thinking about him until the evening.

OOO

In the months that followed this visit, something new happened. Dr. Watson, knowing that I was alone and I liked music, decided to invite me whenever he and Sherlock went to the theatre. This way I didn't have to take a cab alone late in the evening.

I initially asked myself whether Dr. Watson was trying to court me with these invitations but I abandoned the idea. If he had intended to court me, he would invite me when Sherlock wasn't with him. I didn't think Dr. Watson to be so insecure as to wish to be accompanied by a friend on such an occasion. No, he was simply being friendly and considerate.

I regularly went to the theater and sometimes to dinner with them and I always had a very good time.

Sherlock displayed a wide range of different behaviors. Sometimes he was silent and listened absent-mindedly to me and Dr. Watson chatting. On other occasions he was cheerful and conversational.

These regular encounters forced me to wonder about the nature of my feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

I was attracted to him, not only because of his looks but also because of his somehow elusive personality. It always looked like there was something more to discover than what he showed to the world.

Yes, I had a _crush_ on Sherlock Holmes.

But was there something deeper? I couldn't tell yet.

He was brilliant and a gentleman. I had no doubt that he was an honorable man but otherwise I didn't know him at all. He could become quite annoying, especially because of his opinions about women. In addition, although he was always very courteous, he never showed any particular feelings for me.

Whatever I felt for him, he didn't reciprocate. Was it wise to become more involved?

OOO

In November 1887 I found a surprise in my mailbox: a _Beeton Christmas Annual_ issue with a note from Dr. Watson

_Dear Miss Le Goff_

_Eventually I accepted your advice about writing down Sherlock Holmes' adventures. Here you will find my first attempt at it. I hope you will find it to your liking._

_Best wishes_

_John Watson_

I was taken aback. I didn't know that Dr. Watson was working on a book. I devoured it in a couple of days with absolute delight. Until then I hadn't cared much for detective stories but from that moment on I loved them.

I sent a note to Dr. Watson congratulating him and urging him to write more.

_Of course_ Sherlock knows that the Earth goes around the sun, by the way. He had pretended otherwise because he wanted to make a little fun of Dr. Watson. Only a couple of years later did Sherlock dare to confess that it had been a joke. Eventually the good Doctor decided to take revenge by writing it into his first book, something Sherlock still mumbles about.

OOO

The year 1888 brought another novelty: Dr. Watson's marriage.

Yes, he later wrote that it had happened in 1889 but it actually was a year earlier.

I was invited to the wedding, a simple ceremony with very few people attending. Those that came were Sherlock, I, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, Mr. Thurston and two friends of the bride.

Mary Watson was quiet and gentle. She had a word and a moment for everyone. She was younger than me but she already had a few white hairs and wrinkles. Her gaze was bright but there was a sadness about it. It was clear that her life had not always been easy. I was sure that Dr. Watson could now give her the happiness she deserved.

A couple of weeks after the wedding, I left for France as usual.

During the summer, Sherlock continuously popped into my head. I wondered what he was doing and if he ever thought about me. But I especially asked myself whether the two of us were going to attend concerts together again. As a married man, Dr. Watson would probably spend his spare time with his wife rather than go to the theater with other people.

Did Sherlock enjoy our encounters as well or were they indifferent to him?

Yes, it would have been unconventional for a man and a woman to meet alone and on a regular basis without being engaged. I didn't think that Sherlock cared for conventions, I simply feared that those meetings meant nothing to him.

When I went back to London in August he was away on a case in Holland. I had to wait another week for him to come back.

Impatience was eating me alive and I felt that my emotions were going out of control, to a point where I couldn't soothe them anymore.

When he finally came back, I waited for an invitation that never arrived.

I briefly considered the possibility of inviting him myself but I put it aside. If he had been interested in me, he would already have contacted me.

It wasn't wise to nurture my feelings for the detective any further. I had to get him out of my head.

I faced this problem with an established method: travelling. Someone might say escaping, but well...

It was time to keep the promise I had made to my father years before and to bring my mother's body to France.

At the beginning of October, I left.

OOO

It was a cloudy day and I watched the French coast disappear, leaning on the railing.

_'I am a sea loving Breton and you are my worthy daughter_ ' my father had once said. I smiled to myself.

In fact, I enjoyed this new travel across the Atlantic as much as I had enjoyed the first one, sixteen years before.

The weather was rainy when we finally reached New York, eight days later. As we passed by Bedloe's Island, I smugly contemplated the gift from France to the United States, the Statue of Liberty. Of course I had read about it in magazines but to see it was another thing entirely.

New York had become even bigger and more crowded than before. I had a feeling that the people in New York had doubled in numbers since my last visit (as a matter of fact, it was not just a feeling). I was happy when I closed the hotel room's door behind my back and had some privacy again.

On the following day I left for Chicago and from there I went to Madison.

It was strange to be there again. I didn't remember this part of the States from my childhood because I had been too little.

Madison was a small town when my parents had lived there, now it had exploded.

On my first day in town, I visited my mother's grave and started the paperwork for the transport.

As far as I could remember, I had been there only once, while we were on our way to Boston in 1869.

I felt very fragile and I regretted not having someone to accompany me there.

Suddenly I felt the need to talk to her.

"I am bringing you to France very soon" I whispered to the grave "you are going to rest together with _papa_ "

Feeling that I couldn't trust my voice, I stayed silent for a while. "I will come to France every summer and visit you both. I will bring you Cornflowers... I know you liked them..."

My voice broke and I bade her goodbye, unable to stand it any longer.

The arrangements requested some time and I used it to visit the city and the surroundings.

I spent many hours walking by Lake Mendota and enjoying its beautiful autumn colors.

I had brought another of my mother's diaries with me. Until then, I had only read the first one, which ended with the departure to Madison. It seemed right to read the second one here.

I started reading it in a small café where I had found shelter during a rainstorm.

My parents settled down in a much smaller and less crowded Madison. My father was one of the only three doctors in town. He had originally been an expert on heart diseases, something French doctors from his time were renowned for. But now that he was a country doctor he had to deal with everything, from surgery to childbirths to infections.

At some point, my mother started assisting him during his work. The first time it happened by chance but she liked it and helped him more and more often. Sometimes she was disgusted but refused to admit it to him.

" _He noticed that I was pale and told me that I didn't have to stay. I pretended to be fine but it was a huge lie. I thought I was going to faint. Eventually I managed, however. I think I have fooled him_ " she wrote.

They had been so _adorable_. I would have given anything to see them together.

My mother scolded my father for his messy hair and poorly knotted tie. In turn, he complained that he wasn't allowed to do what he wanted in his own house.

Yes, it was regular marital bickering but for me it was special.

Reading this diary made me both happy and miserable. It was always heart-warming to see them together, even if only by reading.

It made me feel like I had spent more time with both of them.

On the other side, my thoughts brought me often back to Sherlock Holmes.

Now he wasn't popping in my head anymore. He had stably took up residence there. No matter what I was thinking or doing, he was always hidden in a corner of the mind.

But was I in his mind as well? Yes, I had longed to be in love, to experience what my parents had felt for each other.

They made it look easy. They had fallen in love at first sight. She had abandoned his family for him, he had put his adventure-seeking spirit aside for her. And they hadn't regretted it.

But I was not my mother and Sherlock was not my father.

OOO

Eventually the paperwork was done and we were ready to go back to Europe.

On December 10th, I arrived in Douarnenez. After a few days, my mother was buried together with my father.

The thought that they were finally together gave me a warm sensation. Now I could visit and bring flowers to both of them every summer.

As for the other goal of this travel, getting Sherlock Holmes out of my head, I had failed miserably.

I was baffled. I didn't _use_ to do silly things like thinking about a man who didn't care. My plans _used_ to work. Apparently, love enjoyed making me feel stupid and unlike myself.

I spent the Christmas holidays with Fabrice and his family. My cousin Jean-Baptiste had married some years before and I spent most of the time playing with his children. I needed my family's company and a few days there made me feel better.

"There is something wrong with you, Gwenn" said my friend Céline one day while we prepared some Christmas decoration.

"I left London for a while to stop thinking about a man. But it hasn't worked. On the contrary" I said softly.

"But why do you want to stop thinking about him?" she asked blinking.

"Because I am positive that he doesn't reciprocate" I replied.

I opened my heart to her and told her about Sherlock.

I had mentioned him to her a couple of times but it had happened before I had discovered my feelings for him.

"I've never heard you talking about a man like this, Gwenn" she said at the end, barely concealing her surprise.

"I know. I am in trouble"

OOO

At the beginning of January, I went back to London. I had to face the situation sooner or later.

As soon as I was in my own apartment again, I couldn't help but peeking at Sherlock Holmes' windows.

With some surprise, I noticed that he was doing the same.

He had probably heard the cab and now he was looking straight into my eyes.

Upon seeing me, he bowed slightly, and I waved to him with a smile. My heart was in my throat.


	14. When the roads meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn's relationship with Sherlock Holmes deepens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes
> 
> \- The French general Henri Giraud, who is mentioned in this chapter, was actually imprisoned during both world wars and escaped both times
> 
> \- The title is a quote from the song "Only time" by Enya, which I believe to be a good soundtrack for this chapter

 

**Gwenn's POV Eastbourne,**

**May 22, 1942**

General Giraud escaped - again!

During the last war, he was imprisoned and escaped. He was imprisoned again by the Germans two years ago and escaped by jumping on a moving train. And he's sixty-five!

It would be funny if the situation wasn't so dire.

OOO

Sherlock Holmes was aware that I had returned but again he made no attempt to contact me.

I did the same. I was already too involved with him. I even considered the idea of accepting Fabrice's offer and to go back to France permanently but eventually decided against it. I kept telling myself that it was because I didn't want to leave my pupils. But although I found very good and sensible reasons to remain, the point was that I didn't want to be far from Sherlock.

Eventually, destiny decided to help me.

It was March 1889 and I was going to attend a concert at the Albert Hall, a new symphonic work by Tchaikovsky.

I was about to climb into the cab when the door in front of my house opened and Sherlock came out, dressed in a white tie. He noticed me and stopped in his tracks.

Before even considering whether it was sensible or not, I told the cabbie to wait for a moment and crossed the street.

"Are you going to the Albert Hall as well, Mr. Holmes?" I asked after greeting him.

"Yes, I am"

"Then you may join me, if you wish. I already have a cab"

He thanked me and we climbed into the cab together.

"You have been away" he said casually during the ride.

"Yes, I went to the States to get some family business done, then I spent the holidays with my cousins in Paris" I explained.

"Ah, Doctor Watson and I suspected that you had left London permanently, after not seeing you for so much time"

"In that case I would have said goodbye to both of you before leaving!" I replied with a smile "Anyway I could think the same about you and Dr. Watson. You both disappeared as well after the wedding"

"Yes, the last autumn has been professionally eventful. Dr. Watson's novel increased my clientele enormously. As for the doctor, as a married man he spends his spare time with his wife"

Sherlock didn't look like the man I remembered. When we arrived in the lightened theater I noticed that he was even paler than before and had lost some weight. He was very serious, his tone grave.

Our seats were in different boxes but we had arrived very early and we still had time to chat.

"So, any interesting cases lately, Mr. Holmes? I have missed the tales of your investigations greatly" I had missed the detective as well but I kept this little information for myself.

"Plenty of them!" he explained with a sudden burst of energy. He told me about the disturbing adventure Dr. Watson later called 'the adventure of the copper beeches'. A man locked up his daughter because she had a suitor he didn't approve of. Then he hired a governess who looked like his daughter to fool his daughter's suitor. He suspected that the suitor was watching the house from the outside and wanted to show him that his daughter was not thinking about him anymore. Eventually the governess figured out that something was wrong and her employer tried to murder her because she knew too much.

Sherlock Holmes spoke of the governess with great consideration. On one hand I was glad that he was respecting a woman's intelligence for once. On the other hand, however, I felt jealous.

"Something with that job looked wrong from the beginning. The young lady had to accept it because she was in need but I would never have allowed my sister to accept it"

"But you don't have any sisters" I said confidently.

He turned swiftly to me and I knew instantly that I was right.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Your opinion on women lets me think that you've never spent time with a sister during your childhood"

"You are attributing to me opinions that I don't have, Miss Le Goff" he answered with a small smile.

"Do you have a sister or not?" I questioned.

"No, I don't" he admitted, looking disappointed.

He was going to say something else but the imminent start of the concert was announced and we took our respective seats.

His box was not far from mine. Sometimes I looked in his direction during the concert but his eyes were always glued to the stage.

During the interval I remained seated, as usual. Suddenly I heard Sherlock's voice behind my back.

"Impressive performance!" he said.

So he had seen where I was sitting and he had come over to talk with me?

I turned to him with a surprised smile. "Indeed!"

"The seat next to my own one is empty, Miss Le Goff. If you wish to sit in my box, I could escort you home after the concert" he said gentlemanly.

I thanked him and followed him to his box.

"And by the way I don't have a low opinion of women. I simply state that not all of them are reasonable or intelligent" he said out of the blue.

"Well, if your education had focused solely on how to look good and nice you would not be the brightest person either!" I retorted.

He raised his eyebrow but didn't reply.

We were silent for the rest of the interval but our faces, both smiling slightly, showed that it was not a hostile silence.

After the concert we rode back together to Baker Street.

"Now that you are back in London, we may return to attending concerts together, if you wish" he said once we were on my doorstep.

After he hadn't invited me in _forever_!

I was perplexed. Since my return to London, he had done nothing to contact me. He was treating me chivalrously but in a detached way, as always. Yet he wanted to attend concerts with me again.

Was I becoming a friend for him? Was there something more?

OOO

From that moment on, Sherlock and I regularly attended concerts together.

For me, it was both an ordeal and a delight.

It was very clear that he wasn't courting me. He never complimented me or declared any feelings for me. He looked at me intently but never in a tender or sweet way. He smiled very little.

I thought that maybe my feelings for him were only a temporary passion. Maybe, upon knowing him better and spending time alone with him, I would decide that he wasn't what I was looking for.

But it was the opposite.

At the beginning we just discussed music or he told me about his most recent cases. With time, however, we began discussing other topics. I found out that we had much more in common than I previously thought.

Once we met just after he had returned from an investigation in Paris. He had been after an international group of art forgers.

"The investigation was banal but it had interesting sidelines. The art dealer who hired me invited me to an art exposition the day before my departure. A magnificent experience!"

"What exposition did you visit, if I may?" I asked, always eager to discover new artists.

"An exposition of independent painters. I discovered a sublime painter! I have seldom been so mesmerized by an art work!" he exclaimed.

I looked at him, amazed. I liked the independent painters, that we nowadays call impressionists and expressionists. But many cultivated people, back then, considered them to be daubers with poor painting technique.

"But maybe you don't share my enthusiasm for the independents" he said, noticing my expression.

"Oh, no, I do share it! I am merely surprised because they are generally underrated"

Sherlock shrugged. "Many people think that art consists of copying what was made in the past. They confuse new ideas and techniques with ineptitude"

He had expressed my own point of view perfectly.

"So you are not among those who complain that true art is dead" I replied with a smile.

"On the contrary. I believe the cultural landscape of our time to be thrilling in every respect"

"It is so refreshing to hear this, Mr Holmes!" I said appreciatively and he bowed slightly.

"You said that you discovered a painter. What is his name, then?" I asked.

"Ah, he's a Dutch named Vincent Van Gogh. He paints so wonderfully with yellow and blue that it looks like he invented the colors himself. And then the texture of his paintings, its richness, are something very new".

A couple of months later, standing in front of one of Van Gogh's paintings, I understood what he meant. Even if the colors were bright and the subject jolly, one could feel that the painter was a tormented man. The painting conveyed powerful vitality but not serenity. It looked like the author loved life but didn't have an easy one. It was magnetic and I never grew tired of looking at it. We were both saddened when the unfortunate painter committed suicide a year later.

Sherlock was a surprising man. On the outside he was rational, aloof, distrustful of feelings. But then he loved tormented German composers or pain-filled painters like Van Gogh. An emotionless person would not care for art the way he did. To him, art and music weren't just the habits of a cultivated person but a necessity. He needed art to express the emotional part of himself.

From that moment on, we started sharing our latest cultural discoveries with each other.

Every time I read an interesting book or admired a beautiful painting, I looked forward to discussing it with him and he did the same. He didn't look down on what was new or not immediately understandable and I liked listening to his opinion even when our taste differed.

I think this was a big turning point in our relationship. The music, poetry and art we find inspiring tell many personal things about us. Sharing with someone else what I feel while looking at a picture is very intimate, more intimate than exchanging compliments.

OOO

Despite being devoted to the monarchy and the Queen, he didn't idolize aristocracy.

To him, clients were just clients and their their family tree wasn't important. People who expected to be promptly helped just because they were noble or very rich annoyed him to no end.

One evening in late 1889 we attended a Schumann recital.

When he went to pick me up before the concert, I noticed that he had a barely concealed annoyed expression.

"It looks like you had quite a day, Mr Holmes" I said conversationally once we were in the cab.

"You can say that again" he answered, irritation clear in his voice "some clients have a hard time understanding that I am not their errand boy"

That was quite an outburst from him. I could even hear a hint of Yorkshire accent.

I looked at him, surprised.

"A lady whose name I will not utter assumed that I had to find her stolen jewelry. She expected me to abandon my current cases and take her own one just because she is a noblewoman!"

I kept for myself the remark that he did live in a monarchic country.

"She even told me _'Mr. Holmes, you are talking to Lady B'_. As if that were relevant for me"

"I have never seen you quite so annoyed, Mr Holmes" I said with a raised eyebrow but he took it the wrong way.

"I apologize. The irritating occurrences of everyday life don't belong to a musical evening" he answered more calmly.

"It's alright. I just meant to say that is must be an important issue for you if you are so irritated"

"You know" he said leaning back on the seat "Nobility doesn't have the right to treat a professional like a servant. The British monarchy is not about that. The monarchy's power is not an absolute one, it hasn't been for centuries. A noblewoman shouldn't feel entitled to command me in my own house"

"I presume that she could not persuade you to help her, eventually"

"Of course not! I seldom refuse to assist a lady but she was so ill-mannered that I simply could not take the case"

After blowing off steam, Sherlock was in an excellent mood for the rest of the evening. During the recital he leaned on his seat with a dreamy expression, seemingly not perturbed anymore by the events which had irritated him so much. He praised the recital with enthusiasm and didn't speak about Lady B. again.

His outburst, however, had been quite singular. Upon telling me about Mary Sutherland's stepfather, years before, he had been clearly displeased but not emotional like now. I had the distinctive impression that he was beginning to lower his guard with me.

OOO

Sherlock's recitations of his investigations always proved interesting. Not only because of the curious cases and the intellectual abilities he displayed but also because of the worldview that he let emerge.

He had a very unprejudiced attitude. He had dealt with enough crimes to know that criminals could be found among all sorts of people and in any country.

"From the way you use to describe it, one could think that your method relies on deductions alone" I observed one day.

We had attended a concert early in the afternoon and were walking back to Baker street. Sometimes we walked instead of taking a cab to prolong our conversation.

We were at the beginning of the autumn but the weather was still sunny and quite warm.

"It actually does" he answered with a pleasant smile.

"I believe there is something more than that" I replied.

"May I ask what that would be?"

"Your attitude. You never make assumptions. You never think that one has to be innocent because he's well-mannered, noble, rich or a woman. The case of the beryl coronet you have just told me about is a clear example. Some gems are stolen from the coronet that Mr. Holder is guarding. His dissolute son sounds like the perfect responsible, yet you find out that the virtuous niece is in fact guilty" I explained"

"I see your point, Miss Le Goff. But facts lead me to this conclusion. I wasn't inclined to consider the son innocent and the niece guilty"

"But other detectives would have assumed that a young lady described in such a way could not be a thief"

"That is why I solve the cases that other detectives do not solve" he replied with his _usual modesty._

OOO

Everything would have been wonderful if he had given me any sign of reciprocation. We always had a good time together, even when discussing serious topics. Our worldviews were compatible if not similar. I felt a closeness to him I had never felt before except for my father.

Why could I not be the same for him?


	15. A Special Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Gwenn spends a meaningful Christmas with a certain detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Opera House in London was called Royal Italian Opera until 1892

**Gwenn's POV**

**Eastbourne, June 13, 1942**

I think this is the lowest point.

The Japanese have conquered Burma. The war in the Soviet Union is a catastrophe.

I thought the Nazis would have trouble to invade such an immense country but nothing seems able to stop them. Every day, we turn on our radio without really hoping to hear anything good.

However it is not time to give up yet. I don't think that my fighting grandsons would be ready to give up.

OOO

On November 28, 1889, I turned thirty.

I had decided to spend my birthday together with my family in France. On November 26th, I left London for Paris. The weather was bad and shortly before Canterbury it started raining so heavily that I couldn't even look out of the windows. With three transatlantic crossings behind me, crossing the Channel with such weather was not a big deal. Nevertheless, I was happy when we finally set foot in France.

My relatives welcomed me warmly, as usual. Fabrice had turned seventy during the summer and had permanently given the shop over to his son.

"Julienne and I are finally enjoying free time and our many grandchildren" he told me with a smile gesturing to Gaston, the older one.

Jean-Baptiste and his wife had three children and the oldest one, born shortly after my father's death, was now six years old. Whenever I was in Paris, I loved spending time with them, playing and telling them stories. Gaston always wanted to hear about my childhood in the wild.

Céline had married a teacher the year before and didn't live in rue Monge anymore. She still lived in Paris, anyway, and we met with the greatest pleasure.

"So, tomorrow is the big day. How do you feel?" she asked with a smile. We were sitting in a café in Montparnasse, a favorite of ours.

I smiled bitterly.

"I feel like one who is wasting her youth after a man who doesn't love her. And my youth is running out" I said.

She looked sympathetically at me and took my hand. "Are you sure that he doesn't, then?"

I sighed. "I don't know what to think. We have known each other for years now. We have been attending concerts together, alone, for almost a year now. He is indeed a private man and he may have a subtle way of showing affection. But he should say something at some point. I cannot offer to court him"

"Maybe he believes you to be indifferent" she reasoned.

That left me silent for a moment. Could it be?

"I think that is hardly the case. I always accept his invitations and I am clearly glad to do so. I have told him everything about my life and my hardest times. I have even told him that I speak with my mother on her grave. The closeness and trust I feel for him is clear. But I cannot do more if he doesn't show some kind of involvement"

"Look, Gwenn, I don't want to delude you. But there is something strange with his behavior. I tried to read the book A study in scarlet with the little English you taught me. The man described in the book is not very sociable. Should I believe that he regularly attends concerts with you just because he has a good time? That he walks home with you instead of taking a cab just to chat? He doesn't seem like that kind of man to me"

I grimaced. "I see your point and it perplexes me as well. But how am I supposed to find out more? If he wished to approach the subject, he would do so. However he doesn't broach the subject. So either he doesn't love me… or he doesn't feel like speaking about it yet. Asking for clarification doesn't look like a good idea"

Céline nodded. "I know what you mean. You should find a way to approach the subject without asking directly.

"But now please, let's talk about you as well. How are you, Céline?"

It was her turn to smile sadly.

"I am a woman who would love to have children but doesn't have any" she sighed.

"You married last year. My parents had to wait for a long time but eventually…"

She looked affectionately at me and we went on discussing personal matters and the last family events.

I celebrated my birthday with a quiet dinner with my family. The children gave me drawings and Céline baked a delicious cake for the occasion.

We had a wonderful evening. Not for the first time, I considered the idea of going back to France permanently.

But there was no debate between common sense and that annoying man.

On Christmas, something changed.

OOO

At the time I used to spend my Christmas holidays either with my family in France or with the Byrnes in London.

In December 1889, Margaret told me that they weren't staying in London for Christmas that year. They had received a last minute invitation to spend the Christmas holidays with some family friends in Norwich.

At first I decided to go to Paris. I still had time to inform Céline about my arrival and get a train ticket. A particular occurrence, however, made me change my mind.

I received a Christmas card from the Watsons. It wasn't strange, they always sent me one since their marriage. In addition to the Christmas wishes, they mentioned that they were going to visit a friend of Mrs. Watson's in Salisbury.

So Sherlock Holmes was probably staying alone, I concluded. He didn't look like the man who spends the holidays with his family, assuming that he had one somewhere.

My project of going to Paris immediately disappeared from my mind and I decided to invite him over on Christmas Day. Yes, it wasn't a sensible idea and I risked hurting myself even more but a tiny part of me still hoped to win him.

Two days before Christmas, I sent him a note:

_Dear Mr. Holmes_

_I hope you are well and wish you a Happy Christmas._

_Dr. and Mrs. Watson wrote to me that they are not spending Christmas in London. If you don't have any previous commitments, I would be glad to invite you for tea on Christmas Day._

_We will be alone since my family friends are not in town._

_Yours sincerely_

_Gwenn Le Goff_

Lunch would have been way too intimate but tea sounded acceptable. I added the remark about us being alone because I knew that he hated social meetings, one of the –few- traits he shared with my father.

I half expected that he was going to say no but he surprisingly accepted. For the entire day, I felt like a school girl, which was entirely unlike me. I waited impatiently for the 25th to come.

The Heltons, parents of one of my pupils, invited me over to lunch on Christmas Day, knowing that I was alone. I had a pleasant time with their large family and went back home to meet Sherlock at 4 p.m.

He showed up punctually, elegantly dressed.

At first we talked about our usual topics: music and his last cases. Then, I don't know how anymore, I started talking about the first Christmas I remember, spent in Cedar Rapids with my father and a few neighbors. I recalled a very snowy Christmas Day spent on Lake Jackson, in Wyoming, in 1865. Although it hadn't been possible to have a regular Christmas with decorations and choirs, we always came up with some idea to make it special.

"My favorite moment was Christmas Eve, when my father told me Dickens' _"A Christmas Carol"_. I wanted to hear it again every year. He pretended to be annoyed because I always wanted to hear the same story but was happy to tell it as well"

Sherlock looked intently at me. Lost in my memories, I asked absent-mindedly "What about your Christmas memories?"

The question just slipped and I immediately regretted it. I knew that he didn't talk about his family.

"Not as joyful as yours, I'm afraid" he answered lightly "but I enjoyed _'A Christmas Carol'_ as well"

I thankfully took the opportunity to change the topic and started talking about Dickens.

His behavior was very unusual. I knew that he could be brilliant and conversational when he was in a good mood but not like this. Despite being quiet and guarded, he behaved like he was having the best time of his life. He told me about his first case, the so-called Musgrave Ritual, and about his first steps as a detective in London. He described his first clients in such a way that I spent most of the time laughing. He was not making jokes or being overtly funny. The ironic way he described them and the raised eyebrow that showed his bemusement, however, were very funny to me.

"If you are used to spending your Christmas amid the snow, I suggest a walk" he said eventually.

It had snowed a little in the afternoon. Baker Street, unusually quiet, was still covered by a thin layer of fresh snow.

I loved snow and I immediately accepted. For a while, we walked slowly and silently, enjoying the snow-clad trees and bushes.

It was not an uncomfortable silence.

I was lost in my thoughts, overcome by the closeness I felt to this man.

"On the few occasions when my parents agreed to be in the same room, the tension was unbearable. They barely spoke to each other" he said suddenly.

His tone was still light and conversational, like it didn't bother him anymore. I stayed silent.

"So we spent our Christmas with the governess" He fell silent again.

"My question was intrusive, I am sorry" I answered softly.

"There is no need to apologize. It has been a while" he replied. He made it sound unimportant but I didn't believe that it was.

I said nothing. It would have been insensitive to change the topic and indelicate to question him further.

"Until a century ago my family was quite wealthy. But my great-grandfather and grandfather squandered the family fortune. My father was not used to earning his own living. After my parents' death we had to sell the property in order to pay the debts" he went on.

We had met regularly for almost two years and he had never told me anything about his family. Why was he telling me all of that, all of a sudden?

"My mother thought that she was marrying a wealthy man but she quickly became disenchanted. They coped with their failed marriage in their own way. My mother had affairs, my father had opium"

His tone was detached, as if he were talking about another family.

Upon reading "The sign of four", the previous year, Sherlock's use of cocaine had surprised me. I could tell that he was not an addict – I had seen drug addicts because of my father's job. Still, cocaine was unlike him, in contrast with his otherwise moderate habits. Now I began to understand.

"I see" I said eventually. He certainly didn't want to be pitied.

After a while, he changed the topic, observing that a plant we had just seen had poisonous leaves. A very Christmas-like conversation about poisons started.

I could feel my heart pumping crazily as we made our way back to Baker Street.

This was a huge change. He had told me something very personal and painful about his life. He had been thoughtful and almost sweet. I kept telling myself that I shouldn't let the imagination run wild. But deep down I felt that I was becoming more than a friend to him. When he looked at me, his gaze was still unfathomable He didn't pour forth romantic words either His new thoughtfulness and the way he had opened up with me on Christmas Day, however, meant more than looks and compliments.

"Thank you for the exquisite tea and the pleasant afternoon, Miss Le Goff" he said once we were on my doorstep.

"You are welcome. This afternoon in your company has been very enjoyable" I replied.

OOO

The two novels written by Dr. Watson had significantly increased Sherlock's business, especially on the continent.

As a result, we met only a few times during the first months of 1890 because many cases requested his presence away from London. During this time, I noticed another change in his attitude. A couple of times I received notes from him informing me that his work was going to keep him away for a while and that for this reason he wouldn't attend concerts with me. A year before he wouldn't have bothered to tell me that. Still, he didn't declare his feelings or voice his intentions. Although I dearly wanted clarification, I decided to give him some time. If I had really won his heart, it would have been silly to ruin everything by pushing him.

OOO

On April 21 I found a note in my mailbox and I immediately recognized his handwriting.

_Dear Miss Le Goff_

_Tomorrow Rossini's "Il Barbiere di Siviglia" will go on stage at the Royal Italian Opera._

_I would be glad to see you there if you don't have any previous arrangements._

_Yours sincerely_

_SH_

I was so surprised that I dropped the note.

" _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_ " was important to me.

It was performed at the first concert I had attended as a child, in Boston. It was my father's favorite opera because the female protagonist, Rosina, reminded him of my mother. And Sherlock was perfectly aware of that. He, on the contrary, was neither fond of opera nor of Italian music. Once he had even told me that he didn't particularly enjoy Rossini, his words. We always attended symphonic concerts together, never opera.

Now he was inviting me to an opera that I loved and he didn't even like.

I was so excited that I could barely contain myself.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle


End file.
